


the devotee

by writingforhugs



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Version of Canon, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Coercion, Dark, Eventual Smut, Extramarital Affairs, F/M, Marriage of Convenience, Minor Character Death, Moral Ambiguity, Painting, Pondering the notion of 'the few for the many', Rebellion, Whipping, ooc? sue me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-27
Updated: 2020-06-06
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:28:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 110,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23864527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writingforhugs/pseuds/writingforhugs
Summary: Her eyes meet mine as she guides me to the door, our footsteps echoing on the marble of the foyer."I'll see you next week?" I ask, stepping out into the sunlight. She tilts her chin back, eyes dark and stormy. She grips the door handle."I wish you'd never come here," she murmurs, her eyes flicking past me to the manicured lawns. "You should've stayed away."
Relationships: Katniss Everdeen/Peeta Mellark
Comments: 191
Kudos: 130





	1. out to tell your lucky ones

**Author's Note:**

> hello all, please accept this weird kind of depressing but also vaguely romantic (?) fic into your hearts. it will have 12 chapters, it will be posted over the next few weeks, and the author will appreciate comments to avoid become a cabin-fever-plagued pod person who works without reward.
> 
> unbetaed.

I’ve been having nightmares ever since I escaped the Reaping.

Horrible, paralysing dreams that grip and crush and leave me shaking, steal away a good night’s rest, and turn the shadows of my bedroom into whispering voids where the Escort stands, holding my name on a slip of paper.

I flinch when Rye passes and slaps me on the back.

“What’s wrong with you?” he asks, spinning a bread paddle in his hands.

“Nothing,” I say, shaking my head.

“You should be happy. Celebrating! You’re through, little brother. No more worries.” He waggles his eyebrows at me. “Maybe now you’ll have the guts to ask Everdeen out.”

…

That night, my dreams involve losing her.

…

The Games go off without a hitch. I see Finnick Odair talking to Haymitch Abernathy on the television, see Plutarch Heavensbee giving interviews—he’s been a favourite ever since the Quarter Quell. Our tributes don’t make it, of course. The victor is the boy from District 1. He seduces his final opponent before slicing her throat.

…

I start walking at night to clear my head.

I know it’s past curfew and that if I’m caught by a keeper I’ll be in trouble, so I keep to the alleyways and the backstreets and stay out of sight. The air is soft. Cold. The moonlight is like silk, illuminating the trees and the houses, painting the world in a glow that reminds me of an arena a few years back which had mutts which were invisible by day but bioluminescent at night.

I walk quickly and quietly, hiding when I hear the buzz of a Peacekeeper’s helmet, only emerging when the only sound I can detect is a distant dog bark.

But that too becomes haunting. Mutt-like. Suddenly this dog is a beast from the Capitol, not a Seam mongrel. It’s bloodthirsty, fast, deadly, controlled by a Gamemaker.

The dog has to be barking for some reason. Someone’s out there. Or something. Something other than me.

I turn on my heel just before the divide between town and the Seam and race back home, feeling like _something is right behind me_ all the way. It’s only when I’ve locked the backdoor of the bakery that I can relax.

I return to bed, and sleep fitfully until my mother is waking me, telling me to get to work.

…

Fen is married. He’s working for his wife’s family business now. Rye is next in line for the bakery. And where does that leave me?

“You should really be thinking about your future, Peeta,” mother says over breakfast. Her knife scratches over her slice of toast and then clanks against her plate. I stare at the crumbs attached to the blade. “I will not be looking after you in my old age and don’t even _think_ about moping around here, drawing your silly pictures while we work ourselves to the bone. Rye’s next in line. What are _you_ going to do to?”

I remain silent. She questions but doesn’t want an answer. She wants us to be quiet and well-behaved. Dad reaches for the butter dish and she slaps his hand away. He says nothing. I chew my toast.

…

Mitch Jones is getting married.

He’s been one of my closest friends since childhood. I remember him crushing on Laurel Worth in First School, and the fact that he’s now marrying her makes me happy. She’ll be marrying into his family business. Fortunately for Mitch, he’s the only son of the farrier.

I attend the ceremony. Laurel wears a white dress and holds a bouquet from the florists. She cries. Mitch wipes her tears away. I clap and cheer along with the other guests as they exit the Justice Building as husband and wife. I hug Mitch and kiss Laurel’s cheek. Those gathered troupe back to the house assigned to the new couple and they make their first fire, toast their bread, and make their vows. We eat cake and drink ale and celebrate for a few hours before curfew looms and the guests make their separate ways home.

That night, it’s just me and my parents for supper. We’re quiet. Dad asks me about Mitch’s wedding. I tell them it was nice. Laurel looked pretty, Mitch was ecstatic, and they’re living on Third Street – oh, where the Marr’s live? – yes they’re just a few houses down – oh, lovely – yes, lovely.

Mother grates her knife across the plate.

…

Rye stumbles home late one night, so far gone he’s unable to put his key in the lock of the back door. He chuckles pebbles at my window pane until I throw it open.

“Peety, my man,” he half-bellows, half-whispers into the street when I open the door for him.

“Get inside,” I hiss. “And keep your voice down!”

He thankfully does, and trips over his own feet, almost hitting his head on the table before I catch him. I make him sit and pull his boots off for him, and then make him drink two glasses of water.

He mumbles nonsense as he does, and it’s only when he’s finished all the water that he gets this big dopey smile on his face. I can’t help but laugh at him. My stupid brother.

“What is it?” I ask him, and he chuckles softly.

“Peeta… Peeta Mellark,” he slurs, patting me on the head, still grinning.

“Yes, Rye?”

“You know who I met tonight?”

“Who?”

He giggles. A grown man of his stature actually _giggles_ into my ear, all hot breath and glazed eyes. My brow furrows in amusement.

“I met… I met my-my-my…” he exhales, steadying himself. “I met my future wife.”

I smile again, and he can’t detect the sadness in my eyes in his state, but it’s there. He chuckles again, patting me once more.

“Call me a romantic…” he says.

“I never do,” I interject, and he pulls a face.

“Call me a romantic… but she is _beautiful_. The most beautiful girl I ever laid my eyes on. These two eyes!” he jabs at his own face and I bat his hands away before he injures himself. “She’s funny and sweet and kind and _so_ smart. I bought her a drink too. _And_ she said I was cute.”

“How nice of her.”

“Yup,” he nods. “Imma marry her. Take my word for it, brother.”

“I will.”

He nods slowly. “Imma marry her.”

“Okay, Rye. Why don’t you get some sleep and think about it in the morning?”

“Naw, Peeta. Naw. Imma marry her,” he says, hugging me to him. I think it’s meant to be a tender moment but he’s kind of crushing me against his chest and he smells of illegal liquor and I’m concerned he’s going to throw up all over me. For a second I wonder if he’s passed out, but then he sighs, and pulls away, slapping my shoulder. “Alright,” he says, standing. “I gotta piss. See ya tomorrow, yeah?”

“See you tomorrow, Rye,” I say, and he crawls on his hands and knees up the stairs, trying to be quiet. I remain in the kitchen, staring at his now discarded glass and the water rings left behind by his sloppy movements. I grab a rag and wipe them away, quickly wash the cup, dry it, place it where it belongs, and then head to bed.

He snores all through the night, but that’s nothing new.

…

“I know your mother goes on at you about it, but it’s only because she wants to make sure all her sons are happy and secure,” dad says one day at the station, pulling his hat down over his ears to protect them against the sun. Us Mellarks burn easily. “And that includes you,” he adds, in an afterthought that does nothing but make me feel even worse. I know it’s total bullshit. She doesn’t care what I do, as long I stay out of her way.

“Rye’ll get the bakery,” I tell him, the both of us staring straight ahead, not looking at each other. The way it’s always been. Parallel lines, never touching, never crossing. “I know that. I’ll get a job. Don’t worry about me.”

“But what if Rye doesn’t. If he marries into another trade?”

“You’re worried he’s going to be in charge of the baking.”

Dad frowns. “How hard is it to _bake_ bread and not burn it?” he exclaims, a moment of passion in a typically solemn and reserved man, a man worn smooth against his wife’s sharp edges.

I smile. He’s right-Rye is the worst baker in the family. But the reality of it all isn’t funny. I’ll be kicked out to make room for Rye’s family soon enough, and I’m sure as hell not living with my parents in the house they’ll be reassigned to.

The lights signalling the incoming train begin to flash. The gates open to allow the train through, and for a moment, I can see the outside world. See how the tracks curve to the left far into the distance, and vanish behind the treeline. Mountains pour into the sky, their peaks disappearing behind haze and smoke. Peacekeepers stand guard in towers each side of the gate, eyeing those waiting on the platform, and the gate shuts with a deafening clang.

Dad speaks, breaking the spell, yanking me back to life inside the fence.

“Look, Peet. I know you’ll figure it out. I know it,” he huffs, clearing his throat, uncomfortable with this kind of discussion. “But I worry about you. You’ve pined over that girl for your entire life and… you really haven’t tried to approach her about it. That leaves me wondering if you’ll remain that way. Or if you’ll marry a nice girl in town and settle down.”

I don’t reply, staring at the shifting trees. She’s been out there. Alone. Hunting. Gathering. Living.

“Just… and I’m really the authority here… just don’t wait too long. Your life will pass you by, son, and I don’t want you to get stuck, or hurt chasing what can’t be.”

He puts a heavy hand on my shoulder. It feels like a brick but is still comforting. Physical contact of such kinds isn’t common between the two of us, not anymore. He pulls it away too soon and I inhale, trying to shift the growing tightness in my chest.

“I’ll be fine, dad,” I say. “You don’t need to worry.”

…

I come home from a round of deliveries and hear muffled shouts. The bakery is closed and I duck around the back, sitting on the step of the backdoor, out of sight, and listen to my parents arguing. Even my dad is yelling. Mother screeches, and he tries to placate her, but I hear how he’s reaching the end of his tether. And his tether is very, very long, built of various pieces of strength and patience all knotted together over the last twenty five years.

It begins to rain and I don’t have a coat, but I don’t dare move, don’t dare step inside. The rain soaks me through and it’s so loud that I can’t even tell when the yelling stops until dad pulls the backdoor open and I almost fall through.

“Peeta,” he says, surprised. “What are you doing out here?”

I look up at him. Water drips down my face and past the neckline of my shirt.

“Oh.” he says, eyebrows raising. “I’ll get you a towel and a change of clothes.”

He leaves the items folded in a pile on the countertop, and a mop and bucket against the wall. I mop up the mess I’ve made on the kitchen tiles and rest my boots against the ovens to dry, and then log the deliveries into the book. Once that’s completed, I hide in my bedroom for the rest of the day.

Usually, I’d have homework to do for school in the morning. But now, I have nothing.

I attempt to draw but each figure comes out ill-proportioned and each face is blurred. I shove the sketchpad and pencils under the loose floorboard and lie back in my bed, tilting my head against my pillow, chin in the air, and watch the rain hitting the glass above me. Watch the grey clouds buffered along in the wind. A bird floats past, caught for a second between the slats holding the glass together, and then it’s gone, suspended by the wind.

…

Less than two months later, and Rye introduces his future wife to us. And by future wife, I mean the one he drunkenly proclaimed his love for in the bakery kitchen.

“Is it not a little… rushed?” Dad asks over cups of tea. Rye looks at Damson, his fiancé, and she smiles.

“I guess. But we love each other, so why wait?” she laughs, gripping Rye’s arm tightly. I eye the two of them. She’s an absolute airhead, matching him perfectly. They look happy. Mother has been appeased. She chatters away with Damson for the entire afternoon, even inviting her to stay for supper. It’s the most pleasant she’s been for months. Years, maybe.

The rest of us ride on her good mood, and whenever it looks like it could be shattered, we hastily retreat and keep the peace.

She hugs Damson when Rye leaves to walk her back home, and then berates me, claiming that the dishes aren’t going to clean themselves, and that if I’m going to be a deadweight, I need to at least clear the place up.

I scrub and dry until gone midnight, at which point she stomps downstairs in her slippers and robe and backs me – quite literally – into a corner. Her finger wags, her brow creases, and she speaks in low, threatening tones.

It’s only when Rye returns, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, that she backs off, vanishing back upstairs to her lair.

“Don’t let her give you a hard time,” Rye says, before heading to bed himself. I watch him go.

…

Mitch may have already married, but I still have a few years to go yet before people really start questioning whether I’m ever going to settle down. That doesn’t stop mother from dropping hints. I’m sure if she could, she’d have already arranged a marriage for me with some girl in town.

But if marriage isn’t on the cards for the time being, I figure that searching for a job is the only thing that’ll give me the chance to get out of her sights for a moment. With Rye a-shooing for the bakery, I have no other choice. If I don’t find a job, I’ll be left with either living with my parents, or homeless.

I ask around, but no one is hiring. People have enough employees as it is, or children already in line to take over. Finally, I head to the Justice Building. There’s usually something going there, even if it’s just a janitorial role. Anything to make me eligible for a house, even if it’s just a tiny box of a place in desperate need of repairs.

Instead, they’re looking for someone to train to become a clerk.

It’s a boring, tedious job, warns the clerk I’ll be replacing, but the pay is fare and the hours aren’t terrible.

“And you get to use the new Capitol machinery,” he says. “No more writing every little thing by hand. It’s much quicker this way.”

I soon learn that this ‘new Capitol machinery’ is not new at all, not compared to what they must have in the city. It’s clunky, old, and difficult to work with, and the screen hurts my eyes. The closest thing to it I’ve ever come across is the television we watch the Games and news reports on.

The senior clerk gives me a manual to read and memorise, and tells me to return on Monday to begin official training.

I tell my parents about my new job. Mother huffs. Dad congratulates me.

“Working in the Justice Building could lead to even bigger things,” he says, obviously trying to inspire me and create some sense of pride in mother. “The sky’s the limit, son.”

I thank him. But really, how far can anyone get in Twelve? The sky isn’t the limit. I can only go as far as the fence.

…

Monday dawns bright and crisp, and I wake before the sun. The house is quiet in these small hours, shortly before mother rises and begins wreaking havoc on the calm. I shower, shave, and comb through my hair before fishing out the hand-me-down shirt and tie I’m to wear to the Justice Building. The shirt is a little small and the material is soft through repeated washes, and I fumble with my tie for a few minutes before finally getting it right. My shoes are shined and waiting for me, but I don’t put them on yet, instead pulling on my normal work boots to protect my new shoes from the flour caking the kitchen floors.

Dad is the first to join me downstairs. I’m grateful for the fact. If it were my mother, I’d have left earlier and would’ve been forced to walk around aimlessly until I was due at the Justice Building.

He eyes the manual I spent the weekend attempting to memorise and raises his eyebrows, putting it back down without a word and starting on his own breakfast. I watch him moving around, pulling things off the shelves with ease.

I look around the space. I know it so well, but I will never work here, not professionally. Rye will become the baker, and I will be a bystander. Will I forget the position of the brown sugar? (Second shelf, sixth along.) Will I forget how to correctly ice cakes? (Gentle, but coaxing, allowing the design to bloom of its own accord.) I hope not. But perhaps, after twenty years of staring at that screen at the Justice Building, punching in numbers, I will know nothing else.

“How’re you feeling about today?” Dad asks, sat opposite me, eating his breakfast with the hurried, jerky motion I’ve come to recognise with a man pressed for time.

“Nervous.”

“Excited?”

“I guess.”

Dad smiles and nods. “Good. What time are you back?”

“Four.”

“I’ll be here. Let me know how it goes.”

“Sure.”

And then he’s gone, rinsing his dishes in the sink, grabbing his apron from the hook, and vanishing into the front to prepare the shop for the first customers. I finish eating and call out my goodbyes, just as the sound of mother’s heels on the floorboards upstairs fills the air.

I close the bakery door behind me, check my reflection in the window, and then duck away.

The Quarters are just coming alive at this time of day. People are setting up their stalls and shop fronts, ready to turn their ‘closed’ signs to ‘open’ at eight o’clock. I nod to the florist as she wheels out the shelves of flowers she always keeps out front.

The butcher’s wife, my mother’s cousin’s sister’s twin, apparently, whistles through the gap in her front teeth when I pass the shop, and I do a little twirl for her.

“Where’re you headed, boy?” she asks, red hands over her hips as she stands in the doorway.

“I got a job at the Justice Building,” I explain, and she waggles her eyebrows. “Training as a clerk.”

“Too good for us normal folk, huh?” she asks with a laugh.

“Never too good for you,” I say, and she wags her finger at me before wishing me good luck. I smile all the way to the end of the street, wondering how it’s possible that she’s related in any way to my mother.

The Justice Building looms out of the skyline, towering above all the other buildings in the squat Merchant Quarters, a symbol of the Capitol, a symbol of its strength, a symbol to remind us all of its omnipresence. I feel strange walking towards it with such purpose, but I figure that it’s something I’ll eventually get used to. The square is quiet, people just arriving to set up their stalls, but no one seems to be talking much. The air is thick with tension. People still call it the ‘slaughter yard’, though usually only in hushed breaths.

A Peacekeeper stops me at the doors and I show them my pass. I stare at my reflection in their visor, hearing it buzzing inside, and eventually they let me in, opening the door much like they do on Reaping day.

A chill rolls over my spine. So. This is what it would be like to be a tribute. I’ve been fortunate that I’ve never been selected, and that I’ve never had anyone I’ve been close enough to say goodbye to. I’ve never been in here, at least not within memory. I’ve been here before, I know that, but as a child, accompanying my father when he reapplied for his permits.

I can’t help but look around. The place is drab but still nicer than much of the district. Shiny, if scratched, floors. Wooden panels on the walls. Floral arrangements here and there. Capitol iconography against the walls. A huge portrait of President Snow behind the main desk. Peacekeepers are stationed at incremental points, and I’m half-convinced they’re statues. Not a single one moves when I pass them, though I can sense their eyes following me behind their visors.

“Name?” the secretary barks before I even have a chance to say hello. I blink several times and she stares at me, a plump, greying woman who looks like part of the furniture. A Capitol pin is secured to her lapel, and her accent suggests that she was once from there, but hasn’t been back for some time.

“Peeta. Mellark,” I say. “I’m Mr. Flattree’s apprentice.”

She clacks away at a keyboard for a minute or two, and then swirls around in her chair to pull open a filing cabinet, rummaging through endless folders. I wait patiently, unable to stop glancing up at the portrait just behind her head. It’s huge. Imposing. Uncanny. I feel like Snow is looking into my head. I look away, palms clammy.

“You will be required to keep your pass on you at all times while in the Justice Building,” she says. “You will be given an identification card upon completion of your training, so do not lose your current pass. Understood?”

I nod.

“Third floor. Office 14,” she instructs, pointing with her hand. I drum my fingers on the dark wooden countertop, and nod.

“Thank you,” I say, squinting at her name badge. “Mrs Wellester.”

She eyes me, lips pursed, and then goes back to typing. The clacking of the keys continues all the way down the corridor.

I climb to the third floor and locate the correct office, and knock. The familiar voice of the clerk orders me to enter, and I do so.

“Mr Mellark,” the clerk, Mr Flattree, says, standing. He checks his watch. “You’re on time. Good. You need to be punctual in this environment.”

“Yes sir.”

“Sit down. We have a lot to do. I hope you’ve been memorising.”

“Yes sir, I have.”

“Good. Sit. I’m going to give you some tasks and you have two hours to complete them. Good?”

I nod my head.

“Good,” he says, passing me a manila folder before returning to his own desk, where he sits in silence, as if I’m not even there.

My desk is small and wedged into a tiny side room attached to Flattree’s own office. It’s cramped and plain but I can look out of the window from my seat, and see over the rest of the Merchant Quarters. It’s a much better view that I’ve had from the bakery kitchen, which backs onto a long row of Peacekeeper houses. I’m sure that on a fine, spring day, I could see all the way to the Seam. I’ve never been so high up in my life, and I can’t resist but spend a few moments just staring out, watching the grey clouds flowing past, and people scurrying around.

“Mr Mellark!” Flattree snaps, and I jump, looking over my shoulder at him. “May I remind you that this is a professional environment, and that staring out of the window if not an efficient use of your time. I see you are yet to turn on your machine and begin your tasks. I assure you they will require all your attention.”

I duck my head. “Yes sir. Sorry sir.”

I turn back to my desk and fire up the computer. I takes a while to turn on and for the screen to load, and while I wait, I open the manila file, feeling my stomach bottom out at the sight of several pages of numbers, printed in small type and cramped lines against the paper. A sigh escapes me before I can stop it.

At least the bakery has given me strong mental arithmetic skills.

…

> TYPE LICENCE FEE CODE
> 
> 423 DFGHJL B78
> 
> 673 GHPKJB M90
> 
> 423 GHJKLI B78 
> 
> 898 EEIBLP E32 
> 
> 122 GHPKJB M97 
> 
> 943 DFGHJL A01
> 
> 673 AERJSS A01
> 
> 943 EEIBLP X83
> 
> 423 GHJKLI B78 
> 
> 898 EEIBLP E32 
> 
> 122 GHPKJB M97 
> 
> 943 DFGHJL A01
> 
> 673 AERJSS A01
> 
> 943 EEIBLP X83
> 
> 673 AERJSS A01
> 
> 943 EEIBLP X83

I manage to complete all of Flattree’s tasks by his deadline, and he scours over them like he’s inspecting finely crafted art rather than rows upon rows of numbers on a screen. My eyes ache after staring at it for so long, and all the numbers melt into one another whenever I try to look again, but he seems to be used to it, scrolling through what I’ve added to the system with ease. He nods.

“Good. Take a break. Be back in twenty minutes.”

“Thank you sir,” I say, standing from my seat, eager to leave.

And leave I do, almost running from the stifling building to reach the grassy area at the back, where I press my back against the wall and groan.

_How the hell am I going to work here?_

I cannot spend my time filing numbers like that. I’ll go insane.

I rub my eyes until spots dance across my vision, and tilt my head back, rotating my neck and feeling my joints cracking after being sat still for so long and barely moving. I fill my lungs with air, and pray that I’ll be allowed to crack open a window while I’m working. Anything to stop myself from being forced to stare at beige walls, beige floors, and beige screens all day.

The day passes much the same. I file numbers, send them to Flattree, and he tells me where I’ve gone wrong. He’s a good teacher, straight to the point and explaining things clearly, and I know that I’m getting the hang of it.

He’s right, though. It’s boring, tedious work. Mind-numbing. I don’t know how he’s done it all these years.

By the time he lets me go, half an hour early for a ‘good first day’, my head is pounding and I feel as if I’m going to be sick. I walk home in a daze, my jacket slung over my arm despite the chill, wanting nothing more than to climb into bed with the curtains closed and sleep away what could be the migraine of the year.

I take the quieter, narrow backstreets, the ones that worm their way through the Quarters. The air is cool there, and the walls block some of the sound of the residents of Twelve, a much-needed respite. It’s too loud after the almost silent office, but for the sound of typing.

A little girl sits outside in one of the alleyways, legs over the edge of the doorway of her home. Flowerpots sit on each step leading up the door, and she watches me walk past with wide, curious eyes.

The bakery is busy when I arrive, and I slip to the backdoor. Rye is there when I enter the dizzying heat of the kitchen, braiding dough into uniform knots and placing them on a tray ready to bake.

“Peet!” he exclaims over his shoulder as I shut the door behind me. “How was your first day?”

“Fine,” I shrug, pulling off my shoes. My brother turns at my despondent tone.

“Wow. You sound _and_ look like shit.”

“Let me put this upstairs,” I say, motioning to my shoes and jacket. “Then I’ll tell you everything.”

And tell him I do. After changing into more appropriate clothes, I gulp down some water and get some much-needed energy from a stale cupcake, and then pull on my apron and help him out, not wanting mother to come bursting in and yell at me for not pulling my weight.

I tell him about the silent Peacekeepers. About Mrs Wellester. About the grey and beige and brown. About the Capitol propaganda and the many, many portraits of the President. About how the screen hurt my eyes. How my neck and back ached. How I could see the whole of the Quarters from my office window. How ‘office’ was a term to be used lightly. About Flattree’s office. About Flattree.

At the end of it all, Rye’s expressions have arched from interested to amused to pitying, and I’m left to take out my frustration on some dough.

“It’ll get better?” Rye offers, and I sigh, rubbing my forehead, well aware that I’m leaving a streak of flour behind.

“If it doesn’t…” I trail off, shaking my head.

“Sure beats working in here all day,” he says, sliding a tray of braided pastries to the side and pulling another one down to fill.

“It really doesn’t,” I grumble, and he fixes me with a sympathetic smile. “You’d agree with me if you saw the place.”

“Entering numbers all day can’t be all you do.”

“It isn’t,” I shake my head, covering a bowl of dough, leaving it to rise, and sprinkling a pinch of flour over the worktop to begin anew. “I file other stuff too. Fill in forms. Check applications. Approve deliveries and orders. Flattree says that by the New Year I’ll be allowed to complete certificates for births, deaths, and marriages, too.”

“That’s kind of exciting, I suppose. You get to marry people, Peet. That’s nice.”

“Sure beats filing numbers all day,” I throw his words back to him, and he narrows his eyes.

“You still look like shit,” he retorts. “Go say hi to pa and take a nap.”

“What about mother?”

“She’s out until eight with friends. If she comes back earlier I’ll wake you in time.”

“What about you and dad?”

“We can handle the evening rush by ourselves. We got it, little brother.”

I nod, looking about in case there’s anything I can do to help. But Rye is right. They look to be ahead of time, in fact. They’re fine without me. I head to the sink, and watch the flour congealing under the water as I wash it away until my eyes cross, my vision blurring.

I go into the shop to say hi to my father who’s stranded out there tending to customers. He’s ringing up a purchase in the register when I make my appearance, his fingers running over the buttons with ease, much like mine soon will with the keyboard at the Justice Building.

“Peeta!” he greets me, smiling as he focuses on the till. He slides the drawer shut and hands some coins to the customer. “My son’s got a job at the Justice Building,” he tells her, and her interest is obvious on her face. New gossip to spread, I’m sure, though she’s already far behind the butcher’s wife, who’s had a day’s notice.

“Lotta responsibility at the Justice Building,” she says. “What’re you doing there?”

“Training to be a clerk, ma’am,” I reply, and she nods.

“Not staying here, then?”

“No, ma’am. My brother inherits the bakery. I didn’t want to be hanging on.”

“Got a good head on you, then,” she says, before smiling at my father. “You must be proud, Farrell.”

“Of course,” dad says, and then she turns to leave, and we’re alone for a few minutes. I grab a rag and wipe down the counter. Dad turns to me, sitting down on a stool with a heavy sigh, glad to rest his feet for a moment.

“You look exhausted, son,” he says, as if he doesn’t.

“Typing all day is surprisingly hard work,” I wryly respond. “It was very tedious. Lots of numbers. But I’ll get it eventually.”

Dad nods. “I know you’ll figure it out. I know it.”

Rye appears with a tray of goods and dad stands but I go and pick it up for him, grabbing the bread rolls and stacking them in the baskets inside the display case. We always bake a new batch for the evening rush, since we always get demands for more as people move through the district on their way home.

“What time did you get here?” he asks, sitting back down.

“About an hour ago,” I say. “But I was helping Rye out in the kitchen.”

“Your mother is out until late.”

“I know. Rye said.”

“Go and rest, Peeta,” he says in that soft but authoritative voice as I stifle a yawn. “We’ll wake you before she gets back.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah. Rye’ll relieve me and I won’t have much to do in the kitchen. Get some sleep before dinner.”

I know he’s actually saying to get some sleep before mother comes back, but I don’t bring it up. Instead, I nod in agreement, pull off my apron, and head upstairs, sliding my bedroom curtains shut, wedging my door shut so only I can open it, and flopping down onto my lumpy mattress. The darkness eases my headache and I feel my body loosening up as I lie there, blinking into the gloom.

Outside, birds chirp and people walk by. A cart clatters past. I close my eyes, and am asleep within minutes.

I dream of numbers.

…

Over supper, mother chats about her friends in terms that are less than friendly. She briefly asks about my day at the Justice Building, before turning the conversation back herself.

…

My first week as an apprentice clerk is pretty incident-free. On Thursday, Flattree lets me sit quietly in my office when someone comes in to register a birth, encouraging me to listen in for my own future part in such events. The mother is from the Seam, young, too, with a husband a few years older than me. He holds the baby in his arms as his wife scribbles in her name, and presses a kiss to the child’s forehead as Flattree enters their details.

Later, he shows me how to log in my hours at the front desk. He tells me to have a good weekend and study the manual again as we exit the building, and then he disappears, scurrying down the street in the opposite direction I’m headed in, towards wherever it is he lives.

I attempt to study the manual again but even the sight of it gives me a headache. I shove it into the pocket of my jacket and ignore it, pushing all thoughts of codes to the back of my head.

…

On Saturday night, I find myself restless and unable to sleep. I pull on a jacket and some boots and escape into the night, needing the cold air and the exercise to clear my head.

Numbers are still swirling in my head and I don’t realise I’m in the Seam until the familiar static buzz of a Peacekeeper on their rounds fills the air, prompting me to duck behind a building, into the shadows. They pass without incident, but I wait until they’ve vanished over the crest of the hill before daring to venture back out into the street.

The Seam is quiet at night, when the machines deep below in the mines aren’t churning away. A dog barks. A wind chime rattles. And then I hear voices. Laughter. A short, barking chuckle that is quickly stifled by another, giggling voice. I’m close to the Hob, which, at this time of night, is only open to those brave enough to enter the place past curfew. It’s for drinking, gambling, and getting up to no good, not encouraged by the Peacekeepers but not stopped either.

Two drunken guys a few years older than me stagger past me down the street, tripping over each other. They take no notice of me, though I’m sure they’d be more than a little suspicious of a Merchant in the Seam at this time of night, if they were sober enough to see straight. I really shouldn’t be here, I know that, but there’s only so much space in District 12. You’re bound to bump into someone, somewhere.

Intending to divert around through the pathway along the edge of the district, I reach the crossroads just up the hill from the Hob. I’m not welcome there, and I know it. Everyone has their place in Twelve, and I know mine. The Hob is Seam, through and through. It’s a place of their own, a place to trade and to socialise, a place usually free of Merchants and Peacekeepers.

Still, as the door swings open, allowing the golden glow of gaslight and the cheery sound of laughter, music, and liquor to spill into the oppressive silence of the night, I can’t help but want to join in.

The door opens and four people pour out. A Peacekeeper – Darius, I think, a nice guy from District 2 who’s more a Twelve resident than a law enforcer – and three from the Seam. Two guys, and a girl. Around my age, I think, though perhaps closer to Rye.

As they get closer, I realise who it is. Darius, along with Thom Doubel and Gale Hawthorne. And the girl? Katniss Everdeen.

I know Hawthorne doesn’t like me and don’t want any trouble, so I step back so that I’m out of sight, waiting for them to pass, feeling like a bit of a creep but know this is better than just hanging out in the open.

As I wait, I realise that I’ve never seen Katniss drunk before. And why would I, but it’s still a sight to see. Never before have I seen her with such a sway in her step, never seen her hanging onto Gale even as he boisterously jokes around with Thom and Darius. She appears to be focusing more on where she’s stepping than the comedic routines of her companions but it’s still such a departure from her sure-footed, serious self.

Thom is the first to break away from the group, bidding them ‘a-farewell, sirs and madam’ and bowing with a sweep on his arm.

Darius loops his arm through Katniss’, saying something to her that causes a peal of laughter to ring into the air, before Gale shushes the two of them. Darius leaves next, at the crossroads, heading back to his own terraced property in town. Gale and Katniss wave him off.

Once Darius is out of sight, Katniss looks around the gloomy street. I feel a chill roll through me when her eyes, flashing silver it the moonlight, pierce the shadows of my hiding spot. I freeze. Can she see me?

Gale tugs on her arm.

“What is it?” he asks, his voice carrying in the quiet air. Even inebriated, he’s on guard. “Is someone there?”

After staring for a moment longer, Katniss shakes her head. She pulls Gale in the other direction, and I breathe a sigh of relief. I can’t tell whether she saw me or not, but being pinned under her gaze like that makes me understand what it must feel like to be hunted by her in the forest. I’m grateful there wasn’t a confrontation, though. It would be difficult to explain why I was out here in the first place, let alone why I was hiding in the shadows.

I head for home and it feels like her eyes are following me the entire way back.

As I lay in bed, I realise my late-night walk hasn’t helped at all. I’m more awake than ever before, thoughts of Katniss at the Hob, drinking and laughing filling my head.

I’ve seen Gale and Katniss together for years, trading as a pair, walking around with and without their siblings. She never seems to interact with him like she did tonight, though. I’ve never seen her even bump shoulders with the guy. The liquor must have pulled down whatever inhibitions she has, whatever front she puts up while she trades and navigates the Quarters.

 _Or_ , my mind taunts me, _or perhaps she isn’t even that drunk, and that’s simply how she acts when she thinks she’s alone with Gale._

I try to push away the wave of jealousy that sweeps over me, but I can’t help the feeling.

With my brothers and friends getting married or starting families, I know it’s only a matter of time before Katniss does the same. And I know who the lucky groom will be. I guess I’ve always known it. My hopes of ever having a relationship with her have always been rather faint, but now, they seem to be hanging by a thread.

My father’s warnings about waiting too long and settling down and my mother’s rants about me being a deadweight both play on my mind.

What if I _am_ too late? She could marry soon. She’s survived the Games after all, and most couples are married within four years of their final Reaping. I could have time to do what I’ve never had the guts to, but I have a feeling deep in my stomach that perhaps… that perhaps settling is my best bet.

When I finally fall asleep, the sky is beginning to lighten.

My thoughts and dreams collide, in a dizzying array of numbers, sounds, and images of wedding cakes, spinning endlessly under the display case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> saturnblushes on tumblr and pinterest. i hope you're all doing well and being responsible!


	2. my eye casts no shadow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings for minor character death

The next month passes much the same, a routine quickly forming. Monday to Friday I’m at the Justice Building, filing, typing, and listening to Flattree. In the evenings, I help out at the bakery. During the weekend, I have chores like always. My only real respite is every second Sunday, when the bakery doesn’t open as my parents are out visiting friends and family.

With school gone and done, I have no homework to complete, no projects to work on, and end up with some free time. I sleep in later than I usually would and then stay in bed for almost an hour, reading one of the old books passed down through generations of Mellarks. It’s about a boy who sets sail one day on what he believes is a river, but finds it is actually an ocean that never seems to end. His observations of the water and sky, of how his entire world is blue and monotonous, of how he is stranded, at the mercy of other forces, resonate within me, more so than they ever have before.

When I do rise out of bed, I come downstairs to find Damson sat in the kitchen, kicking her legs back and forth.

“Good morning, Peeta,” she greets me. “Lovely Sunday isn’t it?”

“It is,” I agree. “Are you here by yourself?”

“I’m waiting for Rye,” she says, her glossy hair shining in the morning light.

“Why don’t you go up and find him?” I ask, and she shakes her head.

“Oh, I mustn’t. I can’t.” She trails off, and I nod in understanding. She’s scared of my mother, too, even when the woman isn’t here.

“Well, can I get you something to drink? Something to eat while you wait?”

“A glass of water would be just fine,” she says, and I grab a glass.

Rye takes his sweet time and the two of us end up chatting for a good twenty minutes, about the bakery, about her younger sister, and about the district.

“I hear you have a shiny new job at the Justice Building,” she says, eyes wide. “How do you find it?”

“A little repetitive,” I reply. “It’s really just me and a computer all day.”

“Must get awful lonely. Especially after working in a place like this for so long.”

“It does. Computers don’t argue though. That’s a plus.”

At this, she giggles hysterically, and her reaction is so over-the-top bizarre to me that I’m unable to stop my own laughter. Rye comes down then, his hair damp from the shower, and eyes the scene.

“Charming my girl, little brother?” he asks, and Damson jumps up to press a kiss to his cheek.

“Most certainly,” she says as his arm wraps around her. She smiles at me and taps Rye’s chest. “How come he hasn’t got a lady on his arm?”

“We’ve long had to beat girls away,” Rye says sagely, and I give him a look. “But Peet only has eyes for one.”

Damson gasps, almost jumping up and down. “Who is it?” she asks. “I bet I can guess.”

Rye chuckles and I glare at him. “I really don’t think you’ll get it,” he says and Damson pouts. “I’ll tell you later if I’m lucky,” he promises her, guiding her gently towards the exit, before mouthing over her head to me that he won’t.

I appreciate his tact. My crush on Katniss has been a running gag in this family, really, but I’ve kept it quiet, not wanting anything to sneak out. Not that my mother would let that happen, but still. People talk. I’d hate for Katniss to learn the truth, especially if she’s to become a Hawthorne.

With my parents and brother gone for the day, I’m left alone in the bakery for a few hours. I spend my time wisely, eating lunch at the table and cleaning up the crumbs, mopping the floor and wiping the counters.

Then, I vanish into my bedroom, where I fish my drawing materials out from beneath a loose board and set about sketching my day away.

I draw whatever is on my mind, usually, finding the process of sketching each fragile line into place, concocting an image from the page, soothing and therapeutic. It’s like I can get all my anxieties out through the charcoal or ink, and breathe easier once they’re right in front of me.

Today, all I can draw are tulips. Again and again, filling the page. Tulips choking on their peers, the petals overlapping and fighting for attention. By the time I hear movement downstairs, I’ve perfected the shape of each stem, each leaf. My colour palette, limited as it is, has brought them alive. If I showed them to my father, I’m sure he’d allow me to offer them as a cake decoration for customers.

I hide upstairs as long as possible, eager to remain in my little bubble for some time longer, but mother doesn’t wait long before she’s coming up the stairs in her sharp little heels and hammering on my door. I hide my materials away and open the door with my manual in hand. I tell her I’m studying when she asks what I’ve been doing all day, which placates her enough for her to simply huff and stalk away.

…

When I turn nineteen in October, a group of friends and I go out for drinks at what can only be described as the town’s answer to the Hob. The liquor there is more expensive than in the Seam, and not as strong, though I don’t mind when I have good company.

We drink, we laugh, and I enjoy the evening, but as the drunken haze in my mind strengthens, so do my thoughts of Katniss. All I can think about is her at the Hob, drinking and laughing. She would never come here. She wouldn’t be allowed in. Yet the idea of her being beside me has me smiling, and results in my friends tearing into me, trying to figure out what has me acting in such a way.

A few girls from school are there too. The light is low, the air as thick and slow-moving as honey. I spot Marlene Redwood across the room, and she spots me. When I allow my eyes to drift out of focus, she almost looks like… _no. Stop._

“She’s lookin’ at you, Peety-boy,” Mitch slurs from beside me, pushing me off my seat and forward into the fray. I stumble, righting myself to look back at him. He raises his glass towards me. I turn slowly on my heel, feeling the room spin. I look back to Marlene. She’s still watching me.

We chat for a good hour. I buy her a drink. She leans on me and places her hand on my arm and then on my thigh and her red lipstick glistens under the dim lighting.

“Let’s go somewhere private,” she whispers into my ear, and I’m unable to stop myself from following her out of the building. It’s dark out, and cold, but she doesn’t seem to mind. She pulls me into an alleyway and in the pitch of the shadows, I let her kiss me, and after a moment, I kiss her back, pressing her into the brick wall. When my hand ventures under the material of her fitted dress, she whimpers against my mouth. When her fingers slip below my waistline, my head drops back. I don’t protest when she drops to her knees.

I have to keep my voice down, wary of patrolling Peacekeepers. I bite down on my tongue to stop any sounds from coming out, and to stop the formation of the letter ‘K’ on my lips.

Afterwards, Marlene has me walk her home. When she kisses me goodbye and trots up the steps into her house, I see how she really doesn’t look like who I wanted her to be, and my stomach turns.

…

Marlene is upset when I don’t reciprocate. Rye calls me an idiot when she stops by to see me and I tell her that we were both drunk and that it was nothing more than a one-time thing.

“Don’t let a good thing pass you by,” he says as she storms away.

“She wasn’t a good thing,” I reply, returning my attention to the task at hand.

…

The first Friday of December I join a few friends at Mitch’s house. Laurel is out for the night so he’s got free reign to invite us over to catch up over drinks and a few games of cards. I arrive just after seven, wrapped up warm against the snow and the cold, with a box of baked goods that didn’t sell this week and are on the verge of being thrown out.

Mitch greets me at the door and tells me to come in, and I buff as much snow off my boots as possible before stepping inside. His house is small, with three rooms upstairs and three downstairs, and a small yard out back, but he and Laurel have done well for themselves, filling the space with places to sit and relax. It’s cosy. Homely. Their wedding photograph sits on the shelf above the fire amidst a vase of flowers and other knickknacks.

I’m the last to arrive having helped out at the bakery since getting off from work, and the others cheer when I step into the kitchen.

“About time!” Davey says, standing and coming over to pull me into a bear hug, stooping his long frame so he doesn’t hit the ceiling. “Where’ve you been?”

“I’m a working man,” I tell him and he laughs. “I couldn’t escape.”

I pass him the box of pastries and he takes them to the table, digging in. I pull out a chair and sit in-between Mitch and Bron. Lee and Will, sons of a mine surveyor, sit across from us, identical but for Lee’s mismatched eyes, one green, one dark brown. Mitch passes me a drink and before long we’re all yelling and laughing, the sound spilling out into the yard through the cracked window. Card games are played, cheaters are accused, and winners crow in their victory much to the chagrin of the losers. My cheeks hurt from smiling so much, and I feel more relaxed than I have in months.

It’s good to see them all. Since school ended just a few weeks before the Reaping, we’ve all been too caught up in our own lives to meet up like this, back in the same group as we were as Upper School students. We’ve seen each other around, of course, Twelve being the size it is, but there’s never been the time for anything more than a quick chat or a wave across the square.

Card games complete, liquor consumed, we shift into the living room. I fight Will over a squishy armchair in the corner and we end up squeezed in beside each other, laughing to ourselves until the others notice, which doesn’t help with the situation. Mitch, the emotional drunk of the group, begins to gush about Laurel, plucking their wedding photo from the mantle and holding it to his chest. Davey and Lee wrestle the frame from him and tell him to get his shit together, but he remains sentimental for the rest of the night.

It’s hours past the curfew when we leave en mass, heading our separate ways into the night. I hear Lee and Will play fighting, their snickers echoing in the empty streets, and bid Bron a drunken farewell when he veers right onto his street. Once I’m home, I quietly let myself in. Thankfully the kitchen is dark with everyone else in bed, so I’m able to gulp down some water and grab some carbs from the breadbin in peace before tiptoeing up to my room, where I collapse asleep, only waking when Rye bangs on my door the next morning, telling me I need to get up before mother removes the door from its hinges.

I spend Saturday working through my hangover. Rye is determined to be as annoying as possible, banging pots incessantly and grinning at my grimaces. On Sunday, mother is at a sewing club and Rye is spending the day with Damson, so it’s just dad and I manning the bakery during the few hours that it’s open. Dad stays out front, handling the customers, while I bake a few things here and there and do prep for the coming week.

Just after midday, my father turns the shop sign to ‘closed’ and slides me an order for a cake.

“For a wedding,” he says. “It’ll be needed in about a month.”

I look over his cramped handwriting, already planning a design in my head.

“Seam or Merchant?” I ask.

“Seam,” he replies, and I nod. At least then I’ll know what kind of budget they have. If they had a lot of money to spend on it, dad would have noted the fact down. But he hasn’t, and that is enough of a guideline for me to know what to make.

“It’s snowing again,” he says, and I crane my neck to look through the fogged-up kitchen windows. “I’ll have to go and get your mother if it doesn’t stop.”

He steps back into the shop front to clean up, and I pin the order to the board, before adding it to the ledger as a backup in case the note is lost or accidentally destroyed. I’m already thinking of what I can do within the parameters of the customer’s request.

_One tier. White. Vanilla/currant sponge. Freesia flowers._

It’s easy enough, except I have no idea what Freesias look like. I furrow my brow. I’ll have to find out somehow, perhaps by asking the florist. I wonder who the cake is for. Dad never writes down the customer’s name, choosing instead to assign them a number and remembering how it corresponds himself. I don’t know how he recalls each order, but he’s never got it wrong.

The cake sounds like a typical Seam one. Merchants always try to mimic the Capitol fashions but on a much smaller scale, and while their attempts at the flashy and modern are a fun challenge, I can’t help but enjoy these simpler, traditional cakes much more. There’s something about them that’s so intimate. It feels like a shared history between the generations, with the similar designs signifying different things for each couple, but still tying history together. The Seam, to me at least, appears to have a more cohesive identity than the Quarters, where people always seem to be against each other, gossiping and stealing customers away.

My thoughts are so preoccupied with cake designs that I almost miss the three short knocks on the kitchen door. I trip backwards off the stool I’m sat on and quickly right it so it doesn’t clatter against the tiles, and then look through to the shop, where dad is sweeping away, lost in his own head.

Only a handful of people ever knock at the back door, and I have a feeling that I know who is going to be there today. She hasn’t visited for almost two weeks now, and I’d be lying if I wasn’t concerned. I smooth my hair down and then twist the doorknob, pulling the door open. A gust of icy air floods in, battling with the heat of the ovens, and I shudder as flakes of snow drift along with it.

Katniss stands on the cobbles, shoulders hunched against the snow, her dark hair damp and her nose bright red.

“I’m sorry-I know you’re closed but I hoped you’d trade?” she says, her voice strained.

“Come in,” I tell her, but she shakes her head, her grey eyes flickering past me, wary of my mother. “She isn’t here,” I say, and her eyebrows scrunch together. “It’s just me and my dad. Come in before we both freeze.”

She looks back behind her.

“If Gale is there he can come in too,” I offer, but she shakes her head, seemingly agitated.

“He’s not here,” she says quietly as I step back to allow her pass. I kick snow back over the threshold and close the door, glad once the outside is where it’s supposed to be.

Katniss shivers even by the heat of the ovens, but she looks relieved to be out of the wind and snow. In this light, I see how different she is to Marlene. How she is a good thing.

“Thank you,” she says.

“Here,” I say, handing her a towel for her damp hair. She hesitates but I don’t bring my hand back, and she eventually has to concede, taking the towel and patting at her face and clothes. “Stay for a while if you want, warm up,” I say, and she blinks several times, before half-shaking, half-nodding her head. “You wanted to trade?” I ask, and she nods, pulling something wrapped in brown paper from her bag and presenting it to me.

“Cheese. My sister made it. It’s the last of the year.”

I peel back the wrapping to reveal a perfectly round disc of fresh goat’s cheese.

“I’ll just go ask my dad,” I say, and she nods again, her feet shifting on the doormat. I disappear into the shop and tell my father that Katniss is here and that she wants to trade, and he enthusiastically agrees, saying that the customers will be happy to buy cheese buns.

“Trade with her whatever she wants,” he says, and I know he means to give her more than the cheese is worth. He’s done it for years, telling me to do the same when I took over with most of the trades a while back. I nod and return to the kitchen. Katniss is still looking a little antsy, her frown deepening.

“Are you okay?” I venture. Questions beyond the trivial ones about the weather are rare in our already limited exchanges, but today there’s something in her eyes that prompts me to ask.

“I’m fine,” she snaps, before shaking her head. “I’m fine,” she repeats, softer. She wrings her hands, bright red from a lack of gloves. She shoves them into her pockets. She forces a smile but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “I just– I’ve had a horrible week. And today I argued with Gale but it’s fine. _It’s fine_.” She presses her lips together, apparently surprised that she’s divulged this much information to me.

I’m equally so, but appreciate that she’s told me. Hopefully it signals that she feels at least a little comfortable in my presence.

“I’m sorry,” I say, and she shakes her head again.

“No, no. I’m just… _he’s_ just… I don’t know. Things are changing too fast, you know?”

“Ever since school finished and the Reaping was over… yeah. Lots of stuff has changed. I kind of wish everything would slow down for a moment,” I nod my head in agreement. She sort of smiles, the corners of her mouth lifting. She looks small, her bulky clothes hanging off her frame. I think of my three meals a day. Even if they are scraps, they’re still _bakery_ scraps. I still get to eat.

“Yeah. People are getting on with their lives all of a sudden. ”

“Weird how people do that,” I joke, and she scowls at first before laughing in a little exhale of air. She looks down at her feet. Blushes again, her olive skin darkening. “Anyway. Your trade,” I say, regrettably breaking this tenuous connection between the two of us.

“Last time the cheese traded for two loafs,” she says, and I pretend to struggle to remember such an exchange.

“Are you sure? My dad was certain it was more.”

She bites her lip. She must be hungry, but I also know that she’s proud. I begin packing two loafs into a large paper bag, and then duck into the shop, only to place a smaller package of cookies and a half-loaf of rye into the bottom, underneath the original two loaves. I cover that bag with another to protect the produce inside, and then hand it over to Katniss.

Upon feeling the weight of it, though, she immediately knows what I’ve done. She opens her mouth to protest but I interrupt her.

“I hope you and Gale can sort out whatever it is you argued about,” I say, placing my hand on the doorknob. “And tell Primrose that my dad is grateful for the cheese.”

I pull open the door. Katniss steps onto the step, holding the bag close to her chest.

“Thank you, Peeta,” she says quietly, though her troubled expression doesn’t seem to mean the same thing.

“You’re welcome,” I say, and she turns, hurrying away down the lane, her boots crunching in the snow. I watch until she’s out of sight, lost behind the falling snow.

…

I never do find out if Katniss and Gale have resolved whatever it was that got her so upset, though I quickly forget about it. I don’t see Katniss for some time, only spotting Gale walking in town one day, a tall, dark figure slipping through the crowds like a shadow.

In the New Year I complete my first solo ceremony as a clerk. It’s not a particularly happy ceremony-the registering of a death–but Flattree walks me through it whenever I forget my place in the process.

The woman is from the Seam. Small, around my mother’s age, with thick, curly black hair scraped back beneath a scarf tied at the top of her left ear. Her eyes are rimmed red and bloodshot. She sniffles, holding a handkerchief in one bony hand. I try to ignore the way her hand shakes when she passes over documents and picks up the pen to sign her name on the certificate.

“I’m sorry for you loss,” I tell her, and she bites her lip, her chin wobbling. She nods, clutching her own copy of the certificate to her chest as she leaves the room.

I exhale, the emotion of the situation weighing heavy on my chest.

Flattree frowns. “You’re not here to express condolences,” he says. “A good clerk is efficient and impersonal. You’re just here to get the job done.”

I look down at the keyboard. “She looked upset. I couldn’t _not_ say anything.”

“Are you planning on being that way with every person?”

I bite my tongue. “I guess not.”

“Good,” he smiles. “That’s good. Now, do you need me to walk you through the scanning process?”

“No, sir.”

“Good. I’ll be next door if you need me.”

“Thank you sir.”

He stops in the doorway to speak again. “Good job today, Peeta.”

“Thank you, sir,” I repeat, and then he’s gone.

I stare at the certificate. I think of what it means to that woman. How Flattree wants me to simply see it as paperwork, and not to get even the slightest bit emotionally involved.

The portrait of the President hanging on the wall by the office door watches me. Flattree may have been beaten down over the years by this job, and may now only see clients as numbers on a screen, but I refuse to be that way. My job may be dull, but it’s an important role. The work I do may be tedious, but when I do it right, it’s just one of many channels the Capitol has into District 12 and its inhabitants. I wonder if Flattree has forgotten the power he has over perception. The power he has over documenting significant events in the lives of those around him.

…

That cake order is due a week later, so I spend the weekend finishing it off. Mother lurks nearby, checking up on my progress as if I haven’t iced a thousand of these orders before. By the time I was twelve, I was doing three-quarters of our wedding cake orders, after my father injured two of his fingers and couldn’t hold a piping bag. People noticed my work and demand grew. Eventually my father conceded that I had surpassed him in skill, giving me the responsibility, though mother took a lot longer to trust me. Even now, seven years later, she watches like a hawk. It only makes finishing the cake with a flourish all the more satisfying.

With a gentle push, the cake spins on its holder, and I narrow my eyes to look it over, ensuring I’m happy with it. I bought a single Freesia from the florists and drew it over and over, filling the page like I did with the tulips, until I knew I could draw them from memory. Mother hates to waste bakery ingredients, so I was only allowed four attempts on a piece of wax paper to perfect the shape of the petals and leaves with some fondant. After that, I had to get it right each time.

“Done,” I say, and she steps up to inspect it as well, eyes narrowing, lips pursed. It’s an expression I unfortunately recognise in myself.

“Good,” she says, and I almost roll my eyes at how much she sounds like Flattree. _Good_ is all anyone seems to say to me these days.

Mother takes the cake away, placing it in a box and then into the cooler so it doesn’t melt in the heat of the kitchens, and I clean up my work station, scrubbing the counter and the tools I used before pulling the order off the board. Then, I begin on prep for the next week.

I don’t learn who the cake was for until almost one week later. During that time, Katniss comes by three times to trade, and each time, she is quieter than normal. Granted, she often pretty quiet, but I can sense a difference. She’s muted, now, not just stubborn. When I ask her about it, she just shrugs, and mentions _change_ again. The topic is obviously playing on her mind. I can’t help but wonder if she’s pondering her own future. Her own destiny. Who she imagines will share it with her.

I’m busy all week after that as I begin to take over more and more of Flattree’s work. He’s often hiding next door in room 15, trying to spend as much time with the woman he’s having an affair with as possible before he retires and has to face reality. I complete a birth certificate all by myself, and with my boss elsewhere, I’m free to congratulate the new parents.

“His name is Eird,” the new-born’s father says, before spelling it out for me. The baby gurgles softly in his mother’s arms, and she smiles down at him. I look away from the screen and smile at the baby as well.

“If you both sign your names–here and here-Eird will officially be a citizen of Panem,” I say, sliding them the document and a pen. Once that’s completed, I type a few more things into the computer and check that the certificate is correct, before placing it onto the pile of documents I need to add to the system and file away.

“Congratulations both of you,” I tell Eird’s parents, and we all stand. I shake their hands and hold open the door for them, wishing them all a good day and watching them walk away down the hallway before returning to my desk. I smile. Another job well done.

After lunch, I head down to the records room to add Eird’s physical certificate and a few other items to the filing cabinets, an arduous task considering just how many records are stored there. Generations of District 12 births, deaths, and marriages, ordered by date and letter. It takes me almost ten minutes to locate the correct cabinet and a few more to find the correction section.

I repeat the process twice more with another birth record and a marriage certificate, my fingers flipping through the identical folders until I reach ‘H’ and slide the marriage proclamation of Hawes, Marc, and Hawes (née Whitoll) Ashlin into place.

Then, just by chance, I spot a name that makes my heart stop. _Hawthorne._

It has to be a new marriage. There is only one Hawthorne old enough to do so. I fish out the document, my blood running cold. It couldn’t be. It can’t. But then I think of Katniss and her musings on how things around her are changing so fast, of how she’s traded more frequently this past week despite the terrible weather.

_One tier. White. Vanilla/currant sponge. Freesia flowers._

_For a wedding._

A Seam wedding.

My heart pounds as I open the manila file. It’s stamped and signed by another clerk, explaining why I didn’t know, why I wouldn’t have seen it. I scan the papers inside.

> _Spouse (Husband):_
> 
> HAWTHORNE, G.

And then his signature, scruffy and blotched on the page.

My eyes dart to _Spouse (Wife):_

> CHAPLIN, F.

And then the signature of Freesia Chaplin.

I bask in the feeling of relief that washes over me. Gale Hawthorne is married, but not to the person I thought it would be. Not to the person I dreaded it would be.

I slot the manila folder back in its place and close the cabinet.

“What’s got you smiling?” another clerk asks when I leave the records room.

“I’m in a good mood,” I shrug, and she furrows her brow at me, shaking her head as if such a notion is impossible.

I remain completely distracted by this revelation for the rest of the day. Gale is married to someone else. The cake was for him. Katniss must have been talking about her best friend’s wedding when she was thinking about how things have been changing. Not her own wedding. I feel selfish for being so happy at her single status, but I can’t deny that I’m glad. Is this a second chance for me? Maybe, just maybe, things will work out the way I never thought they would.

That still leaves me wondering, however. Wondering about why Gale married Freesia and not the girl most people assumed he would. What does Katniss thinks about it? I suppose I’ll never know.

I ask dad about the cake when I get home that evening.

“Did the customer like it?” I ask him. “I hope the freesias were alright. I haven’t made them before.”

“It was perfect,” he replies. “They couldn’t have been happier.”

“Good,” I smile, ducking my head. “Good.”

…

The last day of January is a Friday, but when I turn up to the Justice Building for work, the Peacekeepers at the door informs me that it is closed, and to come back on Monday when business will continue as normal.

I don’t dare ask why, finding the reflective surfaces of their visors unsettling, hurrying home with no further questions.

“Peeta?” dad calls when I let myself into the kitchen.

“Yeah, it’s me,” I reply, and he appears in the doorway to the shop. “The Justice Building is closed for some reason. I was told to come back on Monday.”

“The Mayor’s wife passed in the night. I think that’ll be why,” he replies, and I raise my eyebrows in surprise. I’d almost forgotten that Mayor Undersee _had_ a wife. She hasn’t been seen in public for years now, and what I remember of her was a thin, frail woman appearing older than her years. Madge, their only child, has been looking after her ever since leaving school.

“Oh,” I say. “I had no idea.”

“About twenty minutes after you left a Peacekeeper knocked to say that we had to shut up the bakery at midday. The whole district is shutting down for a half day.”

“For the funeral?”

“Yes,” he says. “Go get changed and then come back and help me.”

I do just that, climbing the stairs and changing out of my clerk clothes. The last person to die that caused the district to shut down like this was the President’s oldest daughter, seventeen years ago. I was only two at the time so can’t remember it, though whenever it’s been mentioned again, people speak of how Panem collectively went into mourning for Antistia Snow, with her funeral televised for her father’s loyal citizens to watch.

Mrs Undersee will not be remembered Panem-wide, however. Even in her home district, she is only to be remembered by a half-day. I doubt that anyone will take it too seriously. Most will celebrate the time off.

I help dad for the last few hours that the bakery is open. All anyone can talk about is Mrs Undersee, gossiping about her and her family, and by the time I finally usher the last customer out and flip the sign to ‘closed’, I’m relieved to escape her name.

I make note to visit Madge soon, to see how she’s getting on.

…

The cold weather doesn’t let up for some time, the snow stretching on much longer than usual. Normally this time of year is just cold, and the snow becomes slush before melting away. Two supply trains are blocked by drifts on the line which takes three days to clear. My father orders more coal for the bakery ovens but it doesn’t come, so we close the shop for a day or two to conserve the little fuel we have left.

The snow is still falling by February and the district is beginning to falter. With trains blocked more often than not, people become desperate for food, so Head Peacekeeper Cray places more guards at the station to stop crowds from forming. The mines close for a week when three miners die from exhaustion. It’s then that the Capitol sends in hovercrafts to ensure their workers have enough to eat, and the mines swiftly reopen.

…

I go to see Madge. I knock and a servant answers, silent as they guide me to where my old classmates sits at a piano, all glossy curls and crisp clothing.

“Peeta,” she says, smiling wide. “It’s so good to see you.”

“I should’ve visited sooner,” I apologise, wrapping her into a tight hug. She squeezes back. I pull away, furrowing my brow. “Madge, I’m so sorry about your mother.”

She moves back, biting her lip. She looks wary. Troubled.

“Let’s step outside for a moment,” she says, pulling on a heavy coat. We walk through a well-manicured garden at the back of the Mayor’s mansion, feet crunching over the cleared gravel paths, past beds of flowers laden with snow and frost. Madge guides me to the very bottom, until we’re surrounded by nothing but tall, dense shrubbery. Through a gap in the green walls, I see a wide, open meadow flanked by trees doused in snow.

“No one will be listening here,” Madge whispers, and I nod. The Capitol is always listening, but blind spots can be found it you know where to look. Of course Madge would know where her words could be kept a secret.

“I really am sorry, Madge. How are you?”

She shrugs, looking small and pale. “I’m fine. She’d been ill for my entire life. I didn’t know anything different. And now that she’s gone… well. It’s a relief.” She scrunches her face up. “It’s such a dreadful thing to say, I know that. But it’s true.”

“Madge…” I say softly, my words trailing off.

“If she’d had it her way, she’d have died years ago,” she mumbles.

We stand in silence for a moment, mulling everything over.

“So it’s just you and your father now?”

“Yes. I don’t see him too often. He’s usually doing business elsewhere. I mostly hang out with Stillman or Tullia.” At my confusion, she elaborates. “Avoxes from the Capitol. I’ve learnt to communicate with them over the years. They keep me company.”

My heart aches for Madge, all alone in this house with no siblings, no parents, her only companions being two servants who can’t speak.

“How is your father taking it?” I ask, and she rolls her eyes.

“He was away on business when it happened. He’ll move on. He always does.”

“Madge…”

“My father prefers the other districts. He’s gone more often than not. He’s got other women to keep him company there,” she pulls a leaf from the hedgerow, twisting it between her index finger and thumb. “Business is better outside of District 12.”

I frown. Mayor Undersee always seemed decent enough. He gives the same speech every year at the Reaping and has never been particularly strict about law enforcement. I guess that’s the limit of my view of him, though. I see him at occasional events, and that’s about it. How much is hidden from us? What goes on behind the doors of the Undersee mansion that we never get to see? Madge has a unique perspective as his only daughter. She knows the truth.

I tell her to not be a stranger. She shrugs, and opens the gate for me when I have to leave. The metal clangs loudly when she closes it, the sound reverberating through the bitter air. The beds of roses, somehow still alive and blooming even in this inclement weather, glitter in the weak sunlight.

...

Katniss knocks late one evening. It’s dark out and I’m hyperaware of mother prowling just upstairs, but Rye says she’s in the bath and won’t get out just to scream at a ‘Seam brat’.

I invite Katniss in again. Rye quietly offers her some of the mulled wine we’ve been drinking. She refuses at first but he insists. Her fingers wrap around the mug and she drinks slowly, savouring each sip.

She doesn’t speak much, not even to my brother, who isn’t as starstruck in her presence as I’ve always been. She stands by the backdoor, looking down at the tiles. She’s thin. Much thinner than the last time I saw her. Her cheekbones are prominent and she has that horrible frantic look I’ve seen in those from the Seam all my life, especially in the dead of winter.

She pulls a squirrel from her bag. It’s just as bony as she is. She looks mortified to be presenting it to me for trade, that it’s all she’s got. I take it from her nevertheless.

“I know it’s not much,” she rasps, her eyes flickering up to meet mine. Her cracked lips are wet with mulled wine.

I shake my head. “My dad loves squirrel. He’s happy with whatever you trade.”

I fill a paper bag with some loaves and pastries. When I hand it to her, she doesn’t comment on the weight, on how this trade isn’t at all fair. She just stares at the food inside with pale eyes. I can only imagine that it’s the most food she’s seen in some time.

“Thank you, Peeta,” she whispers. She starts for the door. I move to open it for her. “Thank you so much.”

“It’s nothing,” I reply, my heart aching at how she shudders in the cold. “Are you going to be alright out here?”

She looks out at the snowflakes drifting down from the night sky, still and silent for a moment before turning to me.

“Yes. See you later,” she promises, before stepping into the street and walking away. The dark quickly envelopes her.

Rye has reappeared when I close the door behind me, securing it against the bitter wind. He sets down two sacks of flour on the table and eyes me.

“She didn’t look good.”

I shake my head. No, she didn’t.

“Worse than I’ve seen her for a few years now.”

“Well, the weather hasn’t been quite this bad for a few years. Last year she was bringing in bigger things than this.” I hold up the squirrel.

Rye grimaces. “She should’ve kept it.”

“She would’ve refused to trade otherwise.”

“This snow better let up soon,” he says, looking out through the glass. Tiny snowdrifts have piled up against the corners of each pane. “People are getting restless. Who knows what they’ll do to put food on the table?”

That thought lingers in my mind long after our conversation ends. I lie in bed, listening to the wind, and try not to think about what Katniss would do. The lengths she goes to so that Prim can eat are truly heroic. And she’s not the only person in the Seam who is struggling to survive.

…

Flattree retires a week later. Finally, I can take his old office and make it my own, stripping away the dust and the dullness. I sweep the office from top to bottom and push the windows open, letting in fresh, cold air to cleanse the place. I stand in the middle of the space, trying to figure out how I can make it more welcoming.

My father proposes that I hang up some of my own paintings.

“You paint such beautiful things and then store them at the bottom of your closet. It only makes sense to put them where they can be seen and appreciated.”

I do as he suggests, carting a few pieces over and hanging them on nails driven into the walls. He’s right. It does brighten the room up, making the beige and grey colour scheme seem less oppressive, even now, in the middle of the winter. I may not be able to hide the portrait of President Snow, but at least I can distract from it. My first client of the day comments on the new additions upon entering.

“They’re lovely. This office is nicer than the others.”

The compliment has me beaming.

At the end of the month, any anxieties I had about not being competent enough for the job are gone. Although I can’t deny that it is monotonous at times, it pays well and I am assured that I’m a good clerk. I’m enjoying it, even. Not at much as working at the bakery, but this work feels like I’m really making a difference in the lives of those around me, actually contributing something aside from baked goods

Most people who come in simply want to file a document and get out of the building. I completely understand why. Every time I have to walk through the entrance I’m reminded of all the tributes that have done the same and never returned. A chill rolls up my spine whenever I pass by the doors concealing the rooms where parents, siblings, and friends have to say goodbye to someone they love.

In a voyeuristic sense, it’s also quite empowering to have access to so many records. Years upon years of data virtually at my fingertips. I quickly learn how to locate a specific document, even without the help of a computerised library, and with practice, am soon able to work in a highly efficient manner, just like Flattree wanted. It’s this attention to detail and dedication to doing the work correctly that allows me to pick up discrepancies in the expense book of Cray himself when he comes in to file a report.

“Sir,” I begin, looking away from my screen and to Cray, who stares at me with beady eyes, his balding head shining under the harsh lighting, his face red and flabby, his uniform straining against his frame. I feel my stomach churn. I know just as well as everyone else what he does to the people of this district. Namely young, desperate Seam girls in great need of coins.

“What is it, boy?” he grunts, leaning forward in his seat.

“There-there just seems to be some inconsistencies in your expense records.” I scan through the rows of numbers, spotting the areas that first brought the issue to my attention. “According to what is written here, you owe the Cap–”

I’m cut off when Cray stands, his chair scraping against the floor, his hand shifting down to the baton holstered at his side. I swallow, following the movement of his hand. He may not be the smartest of folk, but he certainly isn’t stupid. He knows his power. He knows what he can do to people, and how he can get away with it. I know he isn’t playing around.

“What’s your name, kid?” he asks, as if he doesn’t know my family.

“Peeta Mellark, sir.”

“And you’re new around here, yes?”

“Yes sir. I took over from Mr Flattree just a few weeks ago.”

He smiles, a slow, creeping movement that reveals a row of yellowed teeth and a gaping hole where one is missing. He clears his throat, coming in close to me.

“So you don’t know how things work around here, huh? Course not, and that’s okay. You’re still learnin’. But that doesn’t give you the right to forget who’s in charge,” he chews on some tobacco, the smell overpowering. I tilt my chin, holding my breath. “You like your job?” he asks. I nod. “You wanna keep it, make sure you can afford your girl’s pretty dresses?” I nod again. “Then you better double check your records.”

“Yes sir.”

He narrows his eyes. A vein jumps out from his clammy forehead. And then he leans back again, giving me space. I look at the computer screen, and see how each entry has been falsified. The inconsistencies are small, but they’re there. Enough to get away with if you pay the right person to hide it. Cray owes more to the Capitol than most people in Twelve would make in a lifetime. No wonder he wants to keep it secret. I can’t even begin to imagine how much of that debt has been accrued by his paying off of employees, and paying for the girls who line up at his front door.

A day later, he spots me as I walk through the streets with Rye, bringing things from the train to the bakery now that the weather has started to improve and the trains can get into the district. He nods at me, his fingers twitching on the baton. I avert my gaze.

“What was that all about?” my brother asks, and I shake my head. My eyes must be enough to tell him to drop it, at least until we’re in better company.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> saturnblushes on tumblr and pinterest


	3. a fortune i should have found

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for your lovely comments so far :) let me know if you see any spelling/grammar errors, and please don't kill me for this...

I don’t see Katniss for weeks. With the snow gone and the sun having pushed away the frigid temperatures, I’d expected her to show up to trade. But there is only one person knocking at the door, and it’s Gale Hawthorne, albeit with a scowl on his face.

Our conversations are clipped and perfunctory. I think to congratulate him on his wedding, though once he makes it clear that he’d rather not be here, the thought quickly leaves my mind. I want to ask him where Katniss is. She’s usually the one to trade at the bakery-Gale is rarely alone. But I have a feeling that he wouldn’t take kindly to my asking, and stay silent.

Halfway through March, I’m stunned to see Primrose Everdeen step into the bakery. I’m working up in the shop while Rye and dad work in the kitchen and I don’t realise it’s her at first. Her blonde hair, blue eyes, and pale skin are so like mine and the rest of the Merchants that she easily blends in. If you didn’t know her name, or who her father was, you’d assume she was the daughter of a Merchant, and had grown up in the Quarters her whole life.

Her slim frame and worn dress give her away. She looks much healthier than her sister was a little while back, which leads me to think that Katniss is also in better shape. The fact that Prim has even entered into the shop gives me hope. It’s not often that Seam folk can afford frivolous items like cookies and cakes.

An even bigger giveaway of Prim’s true status is the boy on her arm. I could recognise him from a mile off. Rory Hawthorne. He’s going through a growth spurt and looks to soon be as tall as his eldest brother. He’s lean and skinny and has thick, black hair, but has softer features than Gale. He hasn’t yet developed a scowl.

Prim has her arm looped through his and they only have eyes for each other. It’s clear that they’re in their own little world, smiling at each other and laughing together as they peruse the glass case.

“Hello Peeta,” she greets me, pulling Rory along to stand beside her at the register.

“Primrose,” I nod. “Rory.”

The kid narrows his eyes, looking somewhat suspicious that I know his name. I offer him a smile but he doesn’t reciprocate, ducking his head instead, focusing on the countertop. He has the same uncomfortable feeling about him like his brother always has during a trade. Like he’s trying not to jump out of his own skin. Like he’s trying to act indifferent and like he doesn’t feel out of place.

They’ve picked a good time to come in. The shop is empty but for them. I can’t imagine Rory would’ve managed to stay any longer if it had been busy, or if he would’ve even come inside.

“What can I get for you?” I ask Prim, and she exhales, her eyes wide as she stares at the pastries on display.

“It all looks so good,” she says. “What do you recommend?”

“If you’re after something sweet I’d recommend a cherry slice. And if you want something savoury… well, you can never go wrong with pastries or cheese buns.”

“A cherry slice, then, please,” she says after eyeing the prices. I select the biggest one on offer and place it into a box.

“Anything else?”

“Two cheese buns, please.”

I add the cheese buns to the box, wrapping them up to stop the grease transferring.

“And for your friend?”

Prim looks at Rory who has shifted his gaze to the jar of wrapped candies sat on the countertop, free for customers to take. She tugs on his elbow and he looks up at her, shaken out of whatever thought process was distracting him.

“Ror,” she says softly, her brows creasing. “What do you want?”

He shakes his head. “Nothing,” he mutters.

“Come on…” Prim purses her lips. “We have enough. I told you we did. She made sure we had enough for all of us.”

I pretend to be busy with the display, thankful when Rye appears with a fresh batch of loaves so I can occupy myself with organising them. He’s just as surprised at the presence of the two Seam kids as I am, raising his eyebrows at me in passing before vanishing back into the kitchen. Rory’s eyes follow him until he’s out of sight, flicker back to me, and then to Prim.

“I don’t want anything,” he tells her, his voice low.

Prim fixes him with a look and sighs. Her sweet smile dissolves into a look I’ve often seen in her sister. Slightly pissed off and determined to get what she wants. She glances back at the display case and then to me.

“He’ll have one of those,” she says resolutely, pointing at a blackcurrant bake, and Rory’s head whips around so he can face her.

“Prim, I said–” he begins, but she cuts him off.

“This is a treat, Rory Hawthorne. Don’t be an ass.” She smiles at me, victory in her eyes. “Thank you, Peeta.”

I add Rory’s item into the box, hiding an amused smile. “Is that all?”

“That and a loaf of wheat” she says, fishing out a little purse from the pocket of her dress and counting out the coins. Where she’s got them from, I have no idea. I’ve never seen any Everdeen come in with coins to spare for a selection of baked goods.

“Of course,” I say, adding up all her items and telling her the price. Rory winces as if I’ve just reached over the register and smacked him around the face, his eyes drifting to the ceiling. A ribbon of guilt curls through me. How much food could his family get for the same amount of coins that’s just been spent on pastries?

I slide the box and wrapped loaf over to a beaming Prim. I offer her the jar of candy and she takes two, handing one to Rory. He takes it, tightening his fist around the wrapper as if I’ve handed him a spider.

“Thank you so much, Peeta,” Prim says, handing the wrapped loaf to Rory, practically smashing it against his chest, and then taking the box, holding it like it contains bars of gold.

“You’re very welcome,” I reply. “Have a good day.”

She turns on her heel and pulls open the bakery door herself, not holding it for Rory as he follows her out. I see her frown at him as they walk away, and he raises his arms as if to say _'_ _what did I do?'_

I then realise my chance to ask her about Katniss is lost. Of course Prim would know her whereabouts, and if she’s okay. I should’ve asked, even it was just a general question about trading, or a comment on how well her goats cheese sold.

Even with Rory there, I should’ve asked. He isn’t quite as cold as Gale, just uncomfortable. I don’t doubt that he would have told his family if I had asked about Katniss, but that wouldn’t have bothered me if it meant I could find out where Katniss was, if she was okay, and try to put the bother in the back of my mind at ease.

…

Delly is a client one day at the Justice Building, registering as a teacher at the First School. We chat through the process, and it’s easily the best part of my day to not only relax and catch up with my ever-busy friend, but to see her achieve what she’s always aimed to do, ever since we were kids ourselves.

“How long do you train for?” I ask her as she scribbles in the blank spaces I’ve indicated towards on the contract.

“A year,” she says. “I’ll just be learning the ropes and such, finding out where I fit best within the school system.”

“Any grade you’re particularly hoping for?”

“I’d be happy with any. They’re all good kids. Though I would love to be placed with the youngest. I feel I could really help out there.”

“So you’re ready to be called ‘Miss Cartwright’?”

“Goodness, no,” she laughs. “That’ll take some time to get used to, I’m sure. When I was there the other week I kept introducing myself as Delilah or Delly and having to correct myself but kids never forget.”

“You’ll win them all over within a week,” I assure her, and she slides the contract back so I can check it over. She sighs, gripping onto her handbag.

“I hope so,” she murmurs.

“Is that nerves I detect?”

“Yes. And no. Mostly just excitement,” she smiles, tilting her head. A curtain of yellow curls drape over her shoulders. “But enough about me. How is it working here in the Justice Building? I can’t say I wasn’t surprised when I heard you weren’t going to be at the bakery.”

“Rye’s offered time and time again,” I shrug, tapping away at the keyboard. “But I don't want to hang around him for the rest of my life, and I need to have an income to qualify for a house of my own.”

“Didn’t fancy living with your parents?”

I grimace and Delly laughs. “This job isn’t so bad,” I say. “Not the same as baking bread all day, of course, but the guy I replaced made it out to be hell on earth. It’s nice. I like dealing with people.”

Delly smiles. “I’m glad, Peeta. I’m happy you’re happy.”

I smile back at her. “Thanks, Dells.”

Her eyes soften in the way that usually indicates incoming tears, and she flaps her hands a little before pulling herself together. “Things are changing so fast, aren’t they? Look at us, being all grown-up.”

“Everything changes once you leave school,” I agree, signing my name on her licence and blowing on the ink to make sure it’s dry. “Speaking of which, congratulations, Miss Cartwright. Under Panem law, you are now officially a trainee teacher.”

Delly squeals, taking the licence and staring at it. After I’ve put my copy away to file and she’s carefully fit her own into her handbag, I hug her to me and she asks if I’ve grown taller, and then presses a kiss to my cheek and promises to see me again soon.

My office seems emptier once she’s gone, and I sigh, turning back to the pile of paperwork building on my desk.

...

“I hear the Mayor has found a new wife,” dad comments one afternoon.

“Really?” I ask, rolling out some dough and cutting out neat circles for cookies, placing each disc onto a tray ready for baking. “Mrs Undersee only died in January.”

…

It’s a beautiful spring day when Rye marries Damson. The sky is a soft, clear blue, and the trees have burst into life, blossom littering the cobbled streets, floating down through the air with every brush of the breeze.

Rye and I walk towards the Justice Building side-by-side.

“I thought you’d be the one to officiate,” he teases, his hands deep in his pockets to hide how they shake.

“Even if it were allowed I wouldn’t,” I retort. “I couldn’t live with myself knowing I’d chained poor Damson to you.”

Rye elbows me, laughing, and I shake my head.

The ceremony is short and sweet. Rye and Damson sign where instructed, clasp hands, and when they’re pronounced husband and wife, he dips her and kisses his new bride. We all applaud as they exit the Justice Building, celebrating what truly is a joyful day. The food back at the bakery is delicious and the company is good. At the end of it all, when the guests leave to allow the bride and groom to toast their marriage, I find myself feeling nostalgic.

With Rye inheriting the bakery, our parents have already been relocated to a small house just a few streets away. Typically, I’d join them, but I’ve earned enough at the Justice Building these past few months that I can afford to rent the small apartment above what was once a jewellery store which closed down after the owner died several years back. Jewellery isn’t exactly a profitable business in a district like Twelve.

I don’t mind it. It's quiet and I don’t have to worry about being loud and the apartment is just perfect for one person.

But that evening, knowing that both of my brothers are married and in their own homes with their families, and that I will never again live in the bakery, the only place I’ve ever been able to call home, I’m unable to ignore just how alone I am in my apartment. I can hear people walking around out in the street, but here, it’s still and silent. I have no one to talk to. No one to yell at me.

I sit back in the old armchair that Rye forced me to take when I moved out a few days earlier. My things, as few as they may be, look pitiful even in this small space.

I think of Mitch and Laurel’s place. How homely and comforting it was. I look around my apartment, at the bare walls, at the beige paint covering each one.

I blink. I sigh. It appears I’ve found myself back at the Justice Building.

…

When I spot Katniss for the first time in just over a month, I’m stood in my office in the Justice Building, staring out through the window at the Merchant Quarters below. I’m not paying attention to the people bustling in the streets, more interested in the treeline in the distance, beyond the fence. At how the leaves shift individually but together form a great, green, swaying mass.

At first, I don’t realise it’s her. I just see a girl with long, flowing hair walking down the street, wearing a heavy coat, unbuttoned at the front to reveal a pale blue dress. She’s moving fast through the crowds of people, looking about her as she hurries along. And then, for a brief moment, she glances up at the Justice Building and I am able to see her face.

Even at this distance I know it’s her. My heart leaps. She’s okay. She’s alive.

But Katniss Everdeen in a dress is really out of the ordinary. And I don’t recall seeing that coat before. I frown. Something seems… off.

She’s gone a few seconds later, vanishing behind a row of buildings. She remains at the forefront of my mind for the rest of the day, however. She’s been such a regular fixture in my life, even in a small way like trading once or twice a week, that I really noticed when she was gone. I haven’t heard anything about her and have no idea what happened to cause her to apparently vanish off the face of Panem. It’s not my place to pry, but I can’t help it.

Knowing that she’s alive, at least, is enough for now.

…

April is warm and dry, and the district is suddenly busy, busy, busy. My workload at the Justice Building often keeps me back late, filing and sending information off to some unknown location in Panem, completing the minutia required to do this job properly. I help out at the bakery as much as I can, feeling like a useless bachelor just hanging around in my apartment all weekend.

“You’re saving my ass, Peet,” Rye says as I work on prep for the week ahead, knowing that he’s right. Until he gets into the swing of things, he needs all the help he can get to keep the place alive. I know it’s painful for dad to watch, so this is helping not only Rye’s business but our father’s sanity.

I spend time with friends, too, though it only seems to remind me of my single status. Mitch asks me if I even want to settle down, have a family, and I insist I do. It’s the truth. I want it more than anything. The problem is that the person I want to share that all with is allusive, more so now than ever before.

“Are you going to save yourself for her?” Mitch asks one evening as we sit around in my apartment, watching the sun drooping below the mountains on the horizon. “I know you haven’t. But you know what I mean.”

I look down at my drink with a frown. “I don’t know.”

“You seriously don’t look at any of the chicks in town and think they’re wife material?”

“No.”

“You and Marlene seemed pretty cosy on your birthday.”

I shift, uncomfortable. Mitch moves on.

“Madge Undersee?" he suggests. "Perhaps your mother would finally shut up if you married the Mayor’s daughter.”

“I doubt she would accept,” I say, and he shrugs. “Madge is just a friend, really.”

“How about Delly Cartwright? You two have been friends since you were kids…surely she’s the logical choice.”

“Dells is a sister to me,” I shake my head at the idea. “And I don’t want logic. I want happiness. Was Laurel the most ‘logical’ choice for you?”

His upper lip curls a little. “What do you mean by that?”

“Nothing,” I shake my head. “I just mean – did you decide that you wanted to marry Laurel because it was the ‘logical’ or ‘smart’ thing to do, or because you love her?” I raise an eyebrow at him. “That’s a rhetorical question, by the way. I know how much you like her. And if you drink anymore you won't stop talking about her."

It's ironic for me to say, and I know it. Mitch pulls a face, amusement glittering in his eyes.

“I’m just saying, Peet,” he shrugs. “You’re a great guy and any girl would be lucky to have you as a husband. And I know plenty of them think you’re cute. Don’t get caught up with Everdeen. What if she doesn’t like you back? What then?”

I bounce my knee.

“You need to ask her out. Show her you’re interested. Otherwise, before you know it, your life will have passed you by and you’ll be nothing but a crotchety old man living above an abandoned store.” He smiles at me. “I can’t have you cramping my style.”

His words are well-meaning, coming from a truly caring place, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt, even just a little bit.

The parallels of his words to my father’s at the station a year earlier aren’t lost on me. Katniss’ comments about change also ring through my mind. Does the subject matter occupy the minds of everyone around me? Why does everyone seem to be in such a hurry all of a sudden? I’m nineteen, not thirty. I still have time.

_I still have time._

…

But I don’t. I learn this not long after. My time is up, and I will not get a second chance. I have failed. I didn’t act sooner. _This could have been averted. This is all my fault._

My morning is stressful, filled with technology failures and a meeting with an angry mine manager. I’m tasked with the unfortunate chore of breaking the news to him that the Capitol has cut his budget even further than the year before. He makes it clear to me how he feels about that, tearing up the contract and shoving it in my face.

By midday, I’m about ready to quit and work for Rye, live in the bakery cellar, curled up every night on a bag of flour. I step outside to clear my head, needing to take a breather from the confines of the office. The Capitol is too close for comfort there. At least at the bakery I could ignore the presence of the far-off city, aside from the emblems on the coins, and on the bags of supplies sent in on the trains. The square is buzzing with tension though I don’t ask why, too lost in my own head to think to find out what the fuss is all about.

After a little while, I return to my office and eat lunch quickly and quietly, allowing myself a further ten minutes to get organised before my next appointment.

I guide a young father through the registration of a birth, and apologise when he mentions that the box that should hold the signature of the mother will remain empty.

I show him out. His baby stares at me all the way down the corridor until he’s out of sight. I slam my office door and loosen my tie. This must be what Flattree meant when he told me that this job could be draining, even to people like him who remained detached from the lives he was documenting. The monotony of office work plays on my mind, leaving it all the more vulnerable to the numbing effects of being presented the cycle of life in this objective manner. Birth, marriage, death. Birth, marriage, death. I’m just here to make record of it.

I check my schedule for my next client.

> **2PM:** _Marriage registration and officiation_.

Usually that’s all the information I have, but this time Mrs Wellester has been kind enough to add a note.

> _Ceremony for Mayor and wife._

I raise my eyebrows. Everyone had lost interest in the rumours of Mayor Undersee’s second wife. Once the shock of him having a new one so soon after the death of his first had dissipated, there was no more information on the subject, and therefore no more gossip. Mrs Wellester’s notes may be simple, but they’re all I need to know. I straighten my tie and check my hair. I pull my jacket on. I check that the office is tidy, wanting to make a good impression.

I can’t think who his second wife will be, considering the Mayor’s status. It seems unlikely that he’d marry anyone from Twelve. Madge’s comments about his affairs outside of the district come back to me, and I consider the possibility that the new Mrs Undersee will be from elsewhere in Panem.

District transfers aren’t common. The Capitol likes people to stay in one place, with only the necessary citizens being allowed to travel. The families of district Mayors are often allowed to travel, though I don’t know of Madge ever leaving the district. That being said, our Mayor must have the authority and status to be able to request a wife from another district if that was what he wanted. I can already hear the gossip that would spread through town at that news. It would be on people’s minds for weeks.

Shortly before two o’clock, I hear a commotion outside and go to the window, looking out into the square. A crowd has gathered and a vehicle has pulled up in front of the Justice Building, sleek and shiny, a rare item in Twelve. I wonder if the bride realises she’s sat in the same car tributes are placed in to be taken to the train station.

A row of Peacekeepers hold back the crowds. I spot the Mayor climb out, tall and balding, dressed in a fine suit. Madge follows, wearing a pale yellow dress. Then, the bride. The crowd surges forward, eager to see the new Mrs Undersee, but to no avail. The woman is disguised by a headscarf pulled down over her face, obscuring her identity to all prying eyes. She wears a heavy coat over her wedding gown. I watch the Peacekeepers corral the trio away from the vehicle, up the steps, and into the Justice Building. I step away from the window.

Two minutes pass. I check my reflection one more time. I ensure I have everything I need. I adjust the vase of flowers on the desk. I make sure the chair by the wall for the bride to sit on for the wedding photograph is correctly angled. Then I wait.

There’s a knock at the door. I wait three seconds, telling myself that this is no different from any other ceremony, that I still need to be professional.

I clear my throat and call for them to come in. Mrs Wellester opens the door, shooting me a wide-eyed stare that I can’t decipher.

Next, is the Mayor, lumbering through the doorway. I stand to shake his hand. His bride follows, her headscarf still pulled down. Madge is at her heels. She looks pale and upset. She gives me a similar look to Mrs Wellester, who closes the door. Madge sits down on the little bench against the wall.

“Good afternoon,” I greet them all. “It’s lovely to see you on this beautiful day. I hope you’re all well?”

“Of course we’re well,” the Mayor booms, still shaking my hand. “After all, it’s not often that I’m here for such a joyous occasion.”

He leans over the desk a little, speaking quietly.

“If you don’t mind, we need to wait for one other guest. Family of the bride.”

“That won’t be a problem,” I inform him, and he nods, standing back to his full height. He looks much different up close. I knew he was a big man, but it’s only now that he’s stood a meter or so away from that I can appreciate how imposing he is, despite his age. His eyes follow you around the room.

I tell them to take a seat and make themselves comfortable so we can begin the ceremony. The Mayor turns to his bride and laughs.

“My dear, you can remove your scarf now,” he tells her, as if it was all a big joke. Madge stands to help. I hide my frown. I don’t understand why he’d tell her to hide her face in the first place, or why she didn’t remove it once she was inside the building, when she was out of sight of the crowds in the square.

The Mayor sits but I remain standing out of respect for his bride. She turns away as Madge helps her out of her coat, revealing a white dress, so unlike the other ones I’ve seen on other women. Most dresses in the district are rented, older than the brides themselves, often yellowed and patched so much the original material is non-existent. But this outfit is brand new, a bright, pure white, the material falling just below her knees in billowy pleats. Her scarf is white, too, and shimmers slightly under the lights. Madge places the coat onto the bench and helps to remove the scarf, unwrapping it.

That’s when time seems to slow down. When my world tilts.

Shiny, gently curled raven locks drop down as the scarf is removed, eventually revealing a head of styled hair, a piece from each side twisted to the back and secured with pearl-studded pins. Madge sits back down. The bride turns.

Grey eyes the colour of storm clouds meet mine, and I feel my mouth drop open. She averts her gaze immediately, mouth tightening.

I don’t know how long I stand there, staring, trying to kick-start my brain back into gear. I think I’m going to be sick.

I reach out a hand towards her. She swallows hard, and tilts her chin back slightly, a show of defiance. She steps forward and places her small hand in mine.

“Miss Everdeen,” I nod at her, squeezing her fingers in mine, wanting to communicate so much to her through the tiny movement. She presses her lips together, eyes wide, brows furrowed.

“The two of you know each other?” asks the Mayor from his seat.

“We went to school together,” I tell him. Does he realise that the other three people in the room are all the same age? That his clerk, daughter, and bride were classmates?

“How lovely,” the Mayor smiles. “It’s always nice to have friends to celebrate with.”

“Would you like to sit?” I ask Katniss, and she pulls her hand away like she’s been burnt. She sits. She doesn’t look back at me, looking down at her lap.

I try not to stare at her as the Mayor jabbers on about something, but I feel like I’ve just been hit by his car. I’m dazed. Stunned. Completely unable to process what is happening right in front of me.

There’s a knock at the door. Madge jumps up to let who turns out to be Primrose in. I shake her hand once she too has removed her scarf, and she won’t meet my eye either. Where is Mrs Everdeen? Surely she would be here? Primrose takes a seat beside Madge.

And then the ceremony begins.

I don’t remember half of it. I’ve memorised the process and it doesn’t require much thought which is definitely a good thing, since all I can think about is the fact that Katniss Everdeen is sat just across from me, and I’m the one signing her away to the Mayor. My hands are surprisingly steady when I hand over the pen for them to sign their names, and when I look over the contract, I’m strangely calm at the sight of:

> _Spouse (Husband):_
> 
> UNDERSEE, I.

And under _Spouse (Wife):_

> EVERDEEN, K.

The Mayor’s handwriting is looping and neat. He’s used to these fancy ink pens, able to sign his name with flourish, in the same way he must do for countless documents. But Katniss is not used to it, and struggles to print her name. It comes away scratchy, the ink smearing slightly. When she hands the pen back, she doesn’t place it into my waiting hand, but on top of the contract, sliding it across the desk.

I take their fingerprints for the database and then check over the papers, ensuring everything is in order. The room is completely silent. And then I have to force out the words that feel like daggers in my chest.

I look at the Mayor, who smiles, placing his hands on the edge of the desk, pushing himself to stand. I look at Katniss. She is focused on whatever she can see in the window to the left of my desk, beyond where I am sat. She looks a thousand miles away. I can only imagine that that is where she wishes to be, instead of here.

“Under Panem law and in the eyes of the Capitol, you are now husband and wife,” I tell them. The words seem to hurt me just as much as her. She looks at me for the first time since the ceremony began, and I want more than anything to have everyone else gone, for it to be just us, so I can shake her shoulders and ask her what the hell is going on, how come so much has changed since the last time I saw her. I would much rather have her shocked at my interest in her life and perhaps even repelled by it than this.

“Congratulations,” I say, and my voice holds strong as Katniss stands to be next to her new husband. I furrow my brow, look down at the contract, and then back to them. I fight the nausea. “You may now kiss the bride.”

The Mayor smiles again but Katniss looks queasy. I look away when he presses a kiss to her lips, one spotted hand secured on her slim waist. Her hand comes up to her mouth when he releases her, as if she can’t quite believe what has just happened.

“And now for the photograph!” says the Mayor, and Katniss goes to sit on the awaiting wooden chair, and the Mayor behind her, one hand on her shoulder. He smiles. Her face is flat. I duck behind the camera, peer through the lens, and for a minute it’s like I’m an observer, utterly disconnected, viewing the scene only through this tiny window.

I count down. The Mayor keeps smiling. Katniss looks straight at me through the layers of glass and does not smile. I snap the photo.

“Congratulations,” I repeat myself, replacing the cap on the lens, and Katniss stands and goes straight to where Madge and Prim are waiting. She pulls on her coat, pulling the scarf over her head. The Mayor shakes my hand vigorously, thanking me. My smile is tight, my further congratulations to him carefully constructed behind a professional glaze. This is what Flattree was on about, then, when he said that _a good clerk is efficient and impersonal. You’re just here to get the job done._

I show them out. Prim smiles faintly at me as she passes. Her eyes, usually bright, are washed-out. She doesn’t look as happy as a girl should be on her sister’s wedding day, though I can’t imagine this is a happy occasion. Prim of all people must have imagined Katniss marrying a young Seam man, likely Gale Hawthorne, not the Mayor. Never the Mayor.

Mr Undersee tells everyone to get going, claiming he has business to attend to elsewhere, and he strides from the office. Katniss passes me without looking my way, not saying a thing. I bite down on my lip, hard enough to taste blood, and fight the wave of nausea that washes over me as another realisation of the horror of this day strikes me square in the chest.

I’m desperate when I reach for Madge’s elbow as she follows the others out of the office. She turns. Her expression is dazed.

My words are whispered, strained. “When I visited. Did you know?”

She pulls away from me. I feel my ribs collapsing in on my lungs. The others are almost at the end of the hallway. “Two weeks,” she says. “On the seventeenth. He will be out of the district. Come then.”

And then she’s gone. I fall back into my office, and to the window, where the crowd is still waiting. I push open the pane. The breeze has picked up, now as turbulent as I feel. My pulse thunders in my ears, drowning out the noise of the crowd below as they come alive at the appearance of the Mayor. I watch as Katniss, once again enveloped in her headscarf, steps out into the open. The wind surges. Her scarf unravels, the pale material soaring into the air, twirling and fluttering, caught on the breeze.

The crowd collectively gasps. Katniss barrels into the car. The vehicle whirrs away.

I slam the window shut, and sit back at my desk. I file the paperwork. I type information into the computer. I stamp and sign the contract file, label it correctly, and then head to the records room, where I slide the folder under ‘U’.

It would’ve been better if she’d married Gale.

…

As soon as the clock strikes four, I’m racing out of the building and heading the only place I know as home. The bakery.

It’s thankfully empty when I push open the front door and step through the shop and into the kitchen, where my father, brother, and sister-in-law are working.

Rye looks up when I enter. His brow creases. “Peeta–” he begins, and I feel my jaw tightening, shoulders knotting. He knows. Of course he would. In the hour between Katniss leaving and her scarf tearing away in the wind, the gossip would have reached the bakery with ease.

“Son,” my father says. Damson grips a mug of tea, her eyes wide with what I can only assume is surprise at the identity of the Mayor’s new wife, and at the revelation that she is the girl I was—am—in love with. “Peeta, I’m sorry.”

I nod. Dad steps forward and then hesitates, sensing that I need my space. I look around the kitchen. It all looks exactly the same as it was when I left last time, but I know that if I climb those stairs onto the domestic levels, I will find nothing familiar but for the layout of the rooms. This is not my family home anymore.

“I’m going to my place,” I tell them all. What I expected here, I don’t know. Damson stands as if to comfort me but Rye shakes his head. She sits back down. I exhale. “I’m okay.”

And then I turn on my heel, pushing past a person entering the shop front and barrelling out into the street, not stopping until I’m in my apartment, with the door locked.

Finally, I am alone, and allow myself to react in the way I wanted to the moment Katniss turned to face me in my office.

I drown myself in a bottle of liquor like I’m an old drunk. I sit in front of the television and watch the Capitol news reports about riots in Eight. I stand by the window and gaze out at the dark, empty streets, the moonlight bouncing off the nearby roofs. When the sun rises the next morning, I call the Justice Building, and tell them I will not be able to come in for the rest of the week. And with a sharp beam of sunlight bursting through my curtains, I finally fall asleep, where I am finally at peace.

…

That evening, I hear my father hammering on the door of my apartment, asking me to let him in. I ignore it, falling back asleep.

…

The next day, bright and early, Rye is there too, yelling up for me to stop being stupid. Damson’s soft voice floats up through the crisp air.

“He’s hurting, Rye,” she whispers. “We should let him be alone.”

“I just want to make sure he’s alright,” he replies.

I still refuse to let anyone in. They eventually leave.

…

Dad and Rye try again the next day. I finally concede, fully aware of the state I’m in. I feel pathetic, but my heart has been smashed into tiny pieces, and I still can’t quite understand what has happened or why.

“Peeta,” my father sighs in relief. “Can we come in?”

I step aside, allowing them to walk past me and into my apartment. Dad yanks the curtains open and the windows open to let in some fresh air. Rye shakes his head at me.

“Why didn’t you let us in the other day?” he asks. “Damson’s worried.”

“I didn’t want to see anyone,” I tell him, sitting down heavily at my kitchen table. “I just wanted to be alone.”

Rye grimaces. “I’m sorry, Peet. This is… this is a shitty situation to be in.” His brow creases. “I know you loved her.”

I laugh but the sound is bitter. “I never even tried to tell her. Somehow this feels like the universe telling me I wasted my chances, of which there were many, I know.”

Neither of them know how to comfort me. We sit there in silence for a few minutes, three Mellark men unable to speak.

“We bought over some food for you,” my dad finally says, placing his hand on the box he’s placed on the kitchen table. “Figured you wouldn’t be in the mood to go to the market yourself.”

“Thanks, dad,” I smile at him. He places his hand on my shoulder. I sigh, scrubbing my face with my hands, scratching at the hair on my cheeks. Then I ask the question that’s been plaguing me, even though I don’t think I actually want the answer.

“Do you know why she married him? What happened for… for _that_ to happen?”

Rye shrugs. “I’m not sure. No one is. Not really. But the rumour I heard is that she needed money and he could give it to her.”

“Why? She’s been alright this long. Why now? Why _him_?”

“Her mother died.”

Dad’s voice is solemn and soft but fills the room. Rye and I look up at him in surprise.

“What?” I ask. “When?”

“Mid-February.”

I feel like I’m going to keel over. My mind races back almost three months, to when the snow still laid thick on the ground, and the trains were struggling to get through. Mrs Undersee, Madge’s mother, had just died. Katniss came by a week or two later, thinner than I’d ever seen her. Was her mother already gone by that point? I can't believe that even working at the Justice Building, I didn't find out.

“I didn’t know.”

“Neither did I,” Rye says. Not that either of us were particularly close to Mrs Everdeen, other than knowing that she was a damn good healer, but Twelve is small enough that you usually hear about who's died sooner or later.

I think of Primrose coming into the bakery with Rory Hawthorne. Her words.

_She made sure we had enough for all of us._

Was she talking about her sister? Had Katniss already made arrangements to protect her sister by marrying the Mayor? The money must have come from that. There was no way they’d have been able to pay for those pastries otherwise. Suddenly I feel dirty, as if I’ve accepted blood money.

“But _how_?” I ask, not realising I’ve interrupted my brother and father’s conversation. “How did-how did it come to this?”

“I don’t know,” dad says. “All I know is that Mrs Everdeen passed not long after Mrs Undersee. The two were close friends when they were your age.” He sighs, looking troubled. “Mayor Undersee must have needed a new wife.”

“And somehow that new wife was Katniss Everdeen? How does that make any sense?” Rye asks.

“I don’t know, Rye. I’m still trying to figure it out myself. Only time will tell, I think.”

“People aren’t going to shut up about it.”

“Of course not. This is a complete surprise to everyone.”

Rye groans. “Poor Madge. I can’t even imagine how she’s feeling. She and Katniss were friends at school, right Peet?”

I nod, focusing on a crack in the wall.

“When did you find out?” my dad asks me. I look across to him, confused.

“What do you mean?”

“How did you find out about the marriage? Did another clerk tell you?”

“No,” I mumble. “I was the one to marry them.”

Silence. I laugh at the absurdity of the entire situation, but it quickly dies in my throat.

“What are you going to do?” asks Rye.

“I can’t do anything.”

“Don’t think like that,” my father says. “I know this is awful. I know you’re upset. But don’t let this destroy you. Sometimes… sometimes you have to let the ones you love go.”

This doesn't feel like I'm letting Katniss go. It's not like I've found someone else and gotten over my infatuation. She's been ripped away entirely. My love for Katniss is part of me now, no matter how one-sided it has always been. To give it up would be like loosing a limb.

“I can’t,” I say, feeling like a scared little kid who doesn't understand why a cut or a bruise is hurting. “I can’t, dad.”

And his eyes crease as if he understands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I believe the header pic is Carlo Dolci's 'Santa Caterina da Siena'.
> 
> saturnblushes on tumblr and pinterest


	4. the ghost in our lungs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was a fun chapter to write, I hope you enjoy reading it! :)

The next two weeks are absolute torture.

I return to work and keep late hours just to distract myself, spending my spare time at the bakery or with friends, anything to stop myself from being stuck in my apartment with nothing but my thoughts to keep me company.

I work until I’m practically dead on my feet, and still can’t escape it. I may fall asleep seconds after hitting the pillow but I’m greeted by dreams about Katniss and the mayor, which linger long after I’ve woken.

What is happening at the mansion at this very moment? Is Katniss hurt? Is the Mayor a cruel husband to his young wife? The very idea horrifies me. I want nothing more than to race over and sweep her away, and set her out into the woods, where she belongs. She wouldn’t have to thank me. I’d just want her to be living her life the way she truly wants it. Not sacrificing her freedom, her life, her very soul, just so she can provide for her sister, but never herself.

Katniss Everdeen deserves the world, not to be the Mayor’s wife.

Madge’s promise of her father’s absence and the potential for me to visit are all that matter to me. They’re all that keep me going as I count down to the seventeenth, hoping for so much but expecting so very little to come out of going to the mansion. The day finally dawns bright and sunny, and the little family of birds in the shrubs outside my apartment sing cheerfully as I get ready. I’ve already informed the Justice Building that I will only be working a half day, and knowing that I’ll be leaving shortly after midday is fuel enough to dress smartly, to shine my shoes, and to eat a hearty breakfast even though I don’t feel at all hungry.

I’m restless and distracted in my office at the Justice Building, finding that I need to be extra careful as to not make any mistakes. I spend more time than usual stood by the window, just watching the world go by. I can see so much of the Quarters from here but I can’t see much more of the Seam than a few wispy ribbons of smoke drifting in the air. I can’t see the Mayor’s mansion, either, since it’s set way back from the rest of the district, just like the Victor’s Village. All I know is that Katniss deserves to be where the smoke is rising through the trees, not hidden away from sight in a mansion surrounded by artificial flowers, a palace of velvet and marble, and silent, Capitol Avoxes.

She should be far from anything to do with the Capitol. It’s difficult to escape it, but I know she’s freer than most when she steps outside of Panem, into a world that most people will only see through a fence. What cruel fate has intervened to lead her down this path?

By noon, I’m sick with nerves. I pack up my desk, ensuring everything is correct and in order, ensuring that all my work is done. It’s an easy thing to accomplish—it seems that in the weeks following the Mayor’s marriage, babies stopped being born, marriages stopped being announced, and death ceased to tread the streets of District 12. It won’t last long, but it’s odd nevertheless.

I lock my office and hand the key to Mrs Wellester, bidding her farewell. She doesn’t smile, but does thank me for the pastry box I give her in an attempt at a cordial work relationship. I’m a people person, and the thought of going into work each day and barely speaking to my colleagues, knowing virtually nothing about them, is terrifying. That isn’t the environment I want to be in, even if so far, all I’ve seen are government workers who seem utterly disconnected from the world, impersonal, isolated, watched by the Capitol.

Town is bustling as I walk through the cobbled streets, dodging children running past, stepping out of the path of carts. Everyone seems to be appreciating the good weather, at least. This is when I love the Quarters the most. When I love District 12 the most. When the trees are green and bright, the sun is gentle, the skies are blue. People become hopeful, their weathered, anxious faces relaxing somewhat. They walk differently. Talk differently. Everything feels lighter.

The mood infects me a little as I walk by, admiring the stalls of the square, the shop fronts in the streets, and the flowers coming to life in pots and in boxes hooked beneath windows, some of the hardier species even managing to bloom in the cracks in brickwork and between the cobbles underfoot.

But when the driveway to the Undersee Mansion appears, that feeling vanishes, unravelling from me with every step towards the wrought iron gates. I press a button and state my name, and there’s a short buzzing sound, and a smaller side gate creaks open. I close it securely behind me, and then turn to look up at the house. A chill rolls down my spine. The property is nothing by Capitol standards, nothing probably to the rest of Panem, either, but here, to me, it’s a veritable castle.

A thick wall of trees stands behind a brick wall a foot taller than my head, flanking the property to muffle the sound of the Quarters and hide the building from sight. The driveway is fairly long, with manicured lawns on each side. The gravel crunches as I walk, and I notice that it’s one of the only sounds to meet my ears. The birds don’t seem to sing here. There are none flitting through the trees, or hopping along on the grass. The trees seem still, the sun boiled white. The driveway ends with a wide stone steps which climb up and over the centre of a raised garden at the front of the building, held in place by large stone walls mottled with moss. I walk up the steps, feeling very exposed against the house itself, with all its dark, shiny windows. Rose bushes sit heavy at the base of the property, and the double doors at the top of the steps are sheltered by a grand porch, held up by pillars, each carved with Panem’s symbol and motto in looping, ancient text.

If I wasn’t so uneasy by the stillness and the silence, I’d want to sketch the place. There’s no doubt that it’s beautiful.

Only now, it is containing Katniss Everdeen. A phrase once slurred by Haymitch Abernathy onstage at a Reaping comes to mind. _A gilded cage is still a cage._ Never has it seemed more fitting than now. The idea puts a cold, grey lens on the scene, one that I can’t shake off. No longer does the mansion seem welcoming, simply the home of Madge Undersee and her family, borne more of circumstance than anything else, but a façade built by the Capitol ready to tumble at any moment.

An Avox greets me at the door, opening it and nodding to me as I step inside.

“Thank you,” I tell him – Stillman, I assume, a tall, dark-skinned man with his hair buzzed short against his skull. He smiles gently in response, and holds out a hand as if to say ‘this way, please’.

I follow dutifully, unable to take in the corridors and rooms I’m led through when I know that Katniss is somewhere in the building, perhaps close by, perhaps just behind that door, or this one. Stillman leads me to a glass room attached to the back of the mansion, which overlooks the grounds and allows the sunlight to come streaming in from all angles. A door to the outside is propped open, even though it’s still a little cold out, but I guess this place would quickly overheat otherwise.

Madge sits in a simple dress, one much more casual than I’ve seen before, her hair pulled back into a neat ponytail. She turns at the sound of our footsteps and stands.

“Peeta!” she says, and she’s pulling me into a hug before I can respond. Then, she addresses the Avox standing by. “Stillman, could you please bring Peeta and me some tea? And something to eat?”

Stillman motions with his hands. I don’t understand it at all, but Madge does, replying, “Yes, they’ll be in the icebox still. Thank you so much.”

Stillman leaves, and Madge sits down in an overstuffed seat. I join her in another, staring out at the unmoving trees. She looks tired. Without her usual makeup, I can see the shadows beneath her eyes, the paleness of her skin that isn’t natural but brought about by stress and a lack of rest. She sighs, tilting her head as she gazes out through the glass.

“How are you, Madge?” I ask her, and she turns her head to look at me.

“I’m fine. Just tired. Things around here have been strange ever since…” She trails off. I nod in understanding.

I look down at my hands, twisting my fingers together. Stillman returns, sliding a tray holding a pot of tea, two cups similar to the ones my mother only uses on the most special of occasions, some other small bowls, and covered dish, onto the table.

“Thank you,” Madge says again. I glance up at him, unsure of what to say. He just nods again, and floats away. “Don’t mind Stillman,” Madge continues, pouring the tea and dropping in two sugar cubes into her own cup. “He’s harmless. Though if you’re not used to how quiet he walks he can sometimes make you jump.”

I pick up my own cup of tea, stirring it a few times, and then take a sip.

We’re quiet for a moment, drinking tea and eating the strawberry tarts hidden under the domed dish cover. I recognise them from the bakery but I didn’t make them. It’s nice to know that Rye isn’t totally messing up.

“Madge–” I say after a moment, putting down my tea. Madge faces me, waiting for me to continue. “You know what I want to ask.”

“If she’s okay?”

I nod my head. It’s all I need to know. That’ll be enough to calm the ranging turbulence of my mind, soothing it to rough seas and not a Gamemaker-style whirlpool. I’ll still be at the mercy of the water, but at least the odds will be more in my favour.

“She’s okay,” Madge replies. Her voice is soft, as if she’s concerned about her words carrying in the still air. “I think she’ll be alright.”

“She is? I thought… I assumed…”

“That my father would force her to do something she didn’t want to do?” Madge’s words are blunt and I can’t help but recoil slightly.

“No—I don’t mean to say that your father—I just—”

“It’s okay, Peeta. I know what people think.” She sips her tea, raising her eyebrows. “My father isn’t a complete monster. I mean, he may have married a girl the same age as his daughter, but he… he’s not like that, at least. He’s too much of a narcissist to be like Cray.”

“I didn’t think he was like Cray.”

“I know. But people always jump to the worst conclusions.” She sets down her tea, curling her legs beneath her. “No, she has my mother’s old room. Virtually her own wing, really. And he’s been away on business most of the time.”

“He doesn’t care that he’s got a new wife?”

“He doesn’t care for all the expectations and formalities that come with it. Like I said, he prefers to do business outside of the district.”

I can’t help but feel a wave of relief wash over me. Madge was right about my fears, and having them put to rest like this is a huge weight off my chest.

“Katniss has been hiding in her room ever since the wedding. I’ve seen her once or twice but that was only in the first few days straight after, when my father wanted us all together for dinner and to show off to his associates. I’ve tried talking to her but she only lets Tullia in. She won’t come out.”

“Has Tullia said anything about her?” I ask, before realising my mistake. Madge doesn’t bat an eyelid, though.

“Only that she’s eating, bathing, sleeping enough. Sits by her window most of the time. Hates her new wardrobe.” She presses her lips together. “She misses her sister. A lot.”

“Prim isn’t here?”

“No. Father wouldn’t allow children into the house. She’s staying with the Hawthornes. They’ve been compensated. I just don’t think that Katniss has had time to grieve her mother yet. She’s been so caught up in how to survive and the shock of it all, and then marrying and moving here. I think it’s finally hitting her.”

“I couldn’t believe it either. My father told me and I had no idea Mrs Everdeen had passed.”

“They kept it hush-hush. She’d been weak all throughout the winter and when the trains couldn’t come, she got worse. Chest infection, I believe. She looked frail when she would come to take care of _my_ mother.”

“It’s awful.”

“It is,” Madge nods contemplatively. “And I know she won’t admit it… but I know Katniss. Better than she thinks I do. She’s feeling guilty because we were friends in school. And now… and now she’s my step-mother.” Madge wrinkles her nose at the notion. “Not that I expect or _want_ her to be that. All I want is for her to be my friend, despite the circumstances.”

She sighs, a nervous hand going to her temple.

“How are you holding up, Madge?” I ask her, laying my hand over hers in a comforting gesture.

“Still getting used to it all. I’ll be fine, though. I’m an Undersee after all.”

She shrugs as if that’s explanation enough, and I guess I have to take it as so.

“There’s really nothing anyone can do right now,” she says. “I’m not going to stop trying to get Katniss out and about. She’ll get better. She’ll come around. She’ll see that it’s not so bad. We all just need to adjust.”

“Perhaps she should visit her sister?”

“Father won’t allow her off the grounds.”

I feel my blood boil, my pulse quicken. “What?”

Madge looks vaguely bored with the subject. “He did the same to my mother. He tries to do the same with me.”

“He can’t do that.”

“He can. Mayor’s families are often kept under lock and key because of their proximity with the Capitol. It’s unusual that we don’t have keepers at the gate.” Madge shrugs, stirring her tea with a little silver spoon. “I'll get her out, though. And when has a gate ever trapped Katniss Everdeen?"

“If I see Prim, would you like me to mention it?”

“That would be lovely. I’ll send a messenger to her anyway, but let her know that everything is okay. That Katniss misses her.”

“I will.”

“She’s put herself last her entire life,” Madge murmurs. The sunlight brushes over her skin, and she closes her eyes for a moment, caught in the warm glow. “I know that. I just… I think this is the first time that she’s _really_ felt that she’s put herself at a disadvantage for it. The first time that she’s really questioned how worth it this marriage will be at securing Prim’s future.”

I squeeze Madge’s hand. I feel I can trust her and I’m forever grateful for her strength and kindness, now more than ever.

“She’d do anything for Prim,” I say. “If she were still eligible, Katniss would volunteer in a heartbeat if Prim was picked at the Reaping.”

“Don’t even entertain such a notion,” Madge says, looking at me. I shake my head. She smiles and takes my hand in hers, and then abruptly changes the course of our discussion, so quickly I get whiplash. “I know you love her, Peeta.”

I look about, wary of the proximity of the subject of our conversation.

“She isn’t near,” Madge reassures me. “Though you’ve never hidden it well. We used to spot you staring at her in the cafeteria or the hallways. It’s been pretty obvious for years now.”

“Does she—?”

“Know? No. I don’t think she does, not consciously. Whenever I’d mentioned it she denied it. Though, she’s a little slow when it comes to stuff like that. Sharp as a tack except when it comes to realising how easy she is to read. And, before you upset yourself over it, no, she doesn’t dislike you.”

“What a compliment,” I joke, attempting to lighten the mood, though Madge’s comment is enough to make me smile.

Madge pats my hand. “Whenever I mentioned your name she’d always say good things.” Madge smiles faintly at me. “I’ll talk to her. I’ll get through. She’ll be okay.”

“Thank you, Madge.”

“I know this is horrid for you. I’m sorry, Peeta.”

“This is not your fault.”

“I know.”

“And I’m not the one paying the biggest price, here. Not even close.”

Madge looks thoughtful for a moment, and then she looks at me, blue eyes dazzlingly clear, as if she’s seeing some deep, eternal truth. “Everyone has to pay a price at some point, Peeta. What matters is who stands up for another, who takes on these debts, who is willing to play that game.”

I leave some baked goods behind, and Madge hugs me tightly when I leave, smelling of powder and a faint perfume.

Stillman walks me to the gate, and once I’m on the other side and he has turned to walk back to the house, I stand and take the place in.

A flash of movement catches my eye. A window, shrouded in shadow, the curtain suddenly yanked shut. It’s on the other side of the house that Madge and I were in, so I can only believe that it’s Katniss, preserved behind the glass.

I think of Mr Undersee keeping his first wife on the mansion grounds, not allowing her to leave. Of how she was a skeletal, pale, sickly creature, cooped up all the time by her husband, bedridden for years. Will Katniss become that? I can’t imagine it, seeing how alive and wild she is, how her blood pumps through her veins to the same tune of the forest. But then again, Mrs Undersee must have been like that, once, young and energised and free.

…

Though Madge’s words sooth me considerably, I’m still unsettled by the new information I’ve uncovered from my visit. It sits with me over the coming days and weeks, as spring turns to summer. I look out for Prim, for the Hawthornes, and see them occasionally in the square, but it’s a passing glance, and I know I have no right to approach them and discuss the cloud looming over their heads, even to just give my condolences. Katniss isn’t dead, and I can’t start to think that way.

It’s the beginning of June when I’m working in the bakery for Rye, fulfilling cake orders. He may have proved himself to actually be a fair baker now that the place is his, but he has never been able to master the art of cake decoration beyond simple designs. The kitchen door and window are pushed wide open and Rye has the ovens on as low as he can manage, but I’m still overheating. I don’t mind it. It’s familiar, being here.

“Peeta, we need more sourdough,” Damson calls, and I pull a tray of loaves from the cooling rack and slide them through to her. The bakery is fairly busy, though nothing Mellarks can’t handle, even fairly new additions to the family like Damson.

The heat contributes to the previously low-levels of tension in the air, however, like a pressure cooker. Even from my position way back in the kitchen I can sense it, through the hushed buzz of chatter in the shop, which floats up to the ceilings, a swirling, suffocating mass. With the Reaping under a month away, I know that people get antsy. Even those who have escaped the Games feel it, becoming infected by the overwhelming sense of fear and impending doom. When they begin wheeling in the banners and screens and posters of President Snow, it only makes things worse.

Once I’ve finished an order for a three-tier Merchant wedding cake, I place it in the chiller and head to the shop to let Rye know that’s done, and to see if he or Damson need a break. Damson practically runs from the scene, hurrying for the cellar where it’s cool. She’s yet to get used to the heat of the bakery in the summer, and it’s only June. I help my brother out and finally the line dissipates, giving us a breather. Rye looks exhausted, and I tell him to go back with his wife and relax for a moment, assuring him I can handle it by myself. He claps me on the shoulder with a grateful smile and leaves. I glance over at the display case, and then call back for more wheat bread. Rye replies that it’ll take ten or fifteen minutes to cool enough, so I make note to let customers know that they’ll have to wait if that’s what they want.

I’m stuck under the counter, sorting through the various sizes of paper bags stored in the shelves beneath the display case, and call out a greeting when the bell above the door sounds, standing fully a few seconds later.

I almost wish I’d stayed hidden when I see Madge and Katniss entering the shop. Madge catches my eye. This must be why there was added tension in the air. Of course people would be gossiping at the sight of Mrs Katniss Undersee on her first outing since her marriage.

Madge closes her parasol, hooking it over her arm, while Katniss removes a shawl from her head. She glances at me. I can’t help but stare at her for longer than is perhaps necessary, before forcing myself to look at the register instead.

She looks better than my nightmares led me to believe. She looks a little tired, a little pale, and entirely overwhelmed, but isn’t as skinny as she was during the winter, or at the wedding ceremony. She’s also a version of Katniss Everdeen I’d never ever expected to see. Seemingly gone is the Seam kind, clad in muddy pants and boots, a patched shirt, and the leather jacket that was as much a part of her identity as her face or her name.

This is the Merchant version. The Undersee version.

Her shawl is sky blue, soft and embroidered at the corners. Her dress is similar to Madge’s; sleeves reaching the elbows, a neckline that curves just below the collarbones, tailored to the waist, the skirts reaching her knees. While Madge’s dress is a baby pink, Katniss’ is a blue so pale it could be misconstrued as white. Her hair falls in gently styled waves around her shoulders.

The two of them walk up to the counter. Through the shop windows, I can see people stopping to stare though none are brave enough to step inside just yet. Madge smiles at me. She places a gentle hand on Katniss’ arm and says, “Peeta, you’re always working!”

“Madge,” I greet her. I look to her companion. “Katniss.” She looks up. Her eyes are still that striking, stormy grey, framed by dark lashes. “It’s good to see you.”

She nods. “You too.”

Hearing her voice makes my heart swell. It’s been so long. She didn’t speak at all during the ceremony apart from when she had to, and very little the few times I saw her before then. Not that our conversations were ever particularly lengthy, though I’ve come to miss her presence. I wonder if she misses her trade route, too. If she feels strange entering the bakery as a paying customer, not as a trader at the back door.

“I hope you’re both well?” I ask tentatively. I can feel Rye and Damson listening in.

“Yes, we are,” Madge speaks up when Katniss does nothing but stare at the countertop, much like Rory Hawthorne did all those months ago. “It’s a lovely day and I thought Katniss would appreciate a little outing to get some pastries.”

“Well, you’ve come to the right place,” I say softly. “What would you like?”

“I’ll have my usual,” says Madge. “And two loaves of sourdough, two of wheat, and three strawberry tarts, please.”

I can see Katniss counting in her head. Calculating the equivalent trade of what Madge has ordered in squirrels, rabbits, or buckets of wild berries.

I move quickly to fill a box with Madge’s favourite strawberry tarts. Katniss eyes them as I remove them from the display case.

“We get our strawberries from the Hawthornes now,” I tell her. Her head snaps up, and her eyes widen.

“Gale still trades with you?”

“Not as much. Vick usually. He squishes them more than you do, though.” I smile at her and she presses her lips together, though the left corner twitches into a small smile as well. “Is there anything you’d like?” I ask her, and she looks to Madge, who gestures for her to pick whatever she wants, a novelty no doubt, like it was to her sister.

“I—I don’t know,” she mumbles. “I haven’t really seen the display case before.”

“How about cheese buns?” I suggest. “Whenever you got those in a trade, you seemed to like them.”

Katniss nods. She seems surprised that I’d remembered that part of her life _before_.

Madge subtly holds up her hand to indicate that I should add five to the box, and I do so, wrapping them in wax paper first. Then, I add the sourdough loaves into a separate bag.

“I’ll just go and see if the wheat has cooled,” I tell them. “I’ll be right back.”

I duck into the kitchen. Damson and Rye are waiting, wide-eyed.

“Are you alright?” asks my brother. “Damson saw them come in... I can’t believe it, Peet.”

“I’m fine,” I reply. “I just need some wheat.”

Rye hands me a tray and I carry it through. The two of them will certainly grill me later this afternoon for every piece of information they can get.

Back in the shop, I seem to walk into the middle of a tense conversation between Madge and Katniss. I pretend like I haven’t noticed, quickly adding the wheat loaves under the case and then placing two into a paper bag for Madge, and putting the empty tray aside. I total up their order, and Madge hands over the correct amount of coins. Katniss looks a little upset and takes the box of pastries without saying another word.

“Thank you so much, Peeta,” says Madge, sliding me a note once Katniss has turned away. I take it and quickly slide it into the pocket of my apron.

“It’s no problem at all,” I reply. “It was good to see you both. Have a good day now.”

Katniss uses her free hand to pull her shawl back over her head. I can’t imagine it’s very helpful in this heat, though I’m sure it’s for more than protection from the shade. Madge juggles the bag of loaves and puts up her parasol once they’re outside, and I watch the two of them leave, and the small crowd that’s gathered out in the street pretend that they’re not waiting to gawk at them like they’re exotic animals.

I fish the note from my pocket.

> _She’s better._
> 
> _Come in five days._
> 
> _-M._

…

Madge is waiting for me when I arrive at the mansion. It’s unexpectedly raining and my boots leave wet footprints on the tiles, but Madge says it’s no matter. I follow her into the kitchen where she’s preparing some food on a tray and pass her the box of bakery items I brought with me.

“No Stillman?” I ask.

“He and Tullia are out for the day,” she explains. “My father doesn’t often give them days off so I try to send them away to do whatever they want when he’s not here.”

“People will recognise them as from outside of Twelve, surely?”

“I disguise them. They’re fine by themselves and we’ve never had a problem before.” She places a few bundles of District 11 tea into a large pot and heats the water, working with ease in this huge kitchen. She chatters on for a moment, but quickly realises that my mind is elsewhere, and that my responses are half-hearted.

“I’m sorry if bringing her to the bakery was too forward," she says.

I trace my hand over the smooth, shiny stone countertop. “Not at all. I was just surprised to see her out and about.”

“I was surprised that she agreed to a trip,” says Madge.

“So she’s left her room? She’s alright?”

“I had Prim come to visit and she seemed much happier after that. Joined Stillman, Tullia, and I for supper. I think she just wanted people from her old life to be nearby. It can get quite isolating over here.” Madge checks the tea and turns down the heat.

“I’m glad she’s okay.”

“I’ll look after her, Peeta. Don’t worry.”

I watch the tea swirling as she pours it into a decanter, placing it on the tray along with the stacked cups and pile of sandwiches. We exit the kitchen. I hold the tray while she holds a decorated tin of what appears to be candies from elsewhere in Panem.

“My father brought this back from Nine,” she says, admiring the tin. “Hardboiled fruit candies. It really is a product of Panem.”

“Speaking of…” I say as she turns left down a corridor that I vaguely recognise from the last time I was here. She stops by a closed door. “Madge… are you sure this is okay? Me being here? I feel weird going behind your father’s back like this.”

Madge furrows her brow. “It’s okay, Peeta.”

“Is the sneaking around really necessary?” I ask, looking over my shoulder as if Mayor Undersee is going to leap out from behind a pillar and have me fired from my position at the Justice Building.

“My father doesn’t want strange men around his new wife, but if he ever finds you here, he’ll know you’re nothing more than a friend of mine. I don’t think he knows Katniss used to trade with you, and it's not like you're a stranger.”

I frown. “For a man who doesn’t care for the formalities of marriage, he’s awfully controlling of her.”

Madge sighs, rolling her shoulders back.

“I don’t mean to offend you.”

“You aren’t offending me,” she replies. “My father… he’s always been this way. It’s hypocritical of him, I know, to keep his family locked away whenever he’s away on business, working in other districts, but I there’s nothing I can do. Nothing anyone can do.”

I give her a meaningful look since I can’t let go of the tray to even put a comforting hand on her shoulder.

“Anyway,” she smiles, in the same way Mayor Undersee used to do when welcoming the Escort on stage at the Reaping. Tight-lipped and not meeting the eyes. “Come and join us.”

“Us?”

“Katniss. She knows you’re visting.”

“And you didn’t think to tell me earlier?” I hiss, keeping my voice low despite the burst of panic spiking in my gut. Madge just smiles wickedly and shrugs.

“What can I say? I get awfully bored around here and you get so easily flustered about her.”

I shake my head and she pulls a face at me before pushing open the door. We’re back in the glass room, but through another door. It’s really quite different when it’s raining, rivulets of water running down each pane of glass, each droplet like hail. The door is still propped open, though, a few specks hitting the tiles, letting in some fresh air.

Katniss is sat in the chair I was in last time, her feet curled beneath her, her chin resting in her hand as she stares out into the grounds. She only really notices Madge when she’s putting the tin of candies in front of her on the table.

“Peeta’s here,” Madge says cheerily, and Katniss cranes her head around to look at me as I carefully place the tray down beside the tin. Madge claims the seat furthest away in the trio crowded around the table, clearly signalling for me to sit between her and Katniss. I do so, smoothing down my damp hair.

“I brought more cheese buns,” I tell her, already embarrassed at my tendency to default to talking about baked goods when all other meaningful thoughts drift from my head. “In case you’d already eaten the ones you bought at the bakery.”

“Of course she has,” Madge says, and Katniss glares at her. “You were right, Peeta. She loves them.”

“Thank you,” Katniss tells me, and I nod, pleased.

Madge is thankfully a better conversationalist than her two guests, and prompts us until we’re having light-hearted chatter over the food she’d prepared. Katniss talks about her favourite part of the mansion. (This very room, she tells me, because it’s almost like she isn’t in the mansion anymore.)

“Have you been into the gardens yet?” I ask, and she shakes her head.

“Not really.”

“We went onto the terrace at the front of the house a few days ago. But it’s been so horrible outside that we haven’t gone out since.”

Katniss reaches for her tea. “I used to go out in all weathers,” she murmurs. “Not anymore. Not dressed like this.”

She gestures to her dress. It’s dark green this time, a soft cotton contraption with long sleeves. She wears thick socks underneath to ward against the cold tiles. Her hair is braided, a suggestion of her old self.

“You look lovely,” I say before I can help myself. Her eyes widen.

“Thank you.”

“Is green your favourite colour?”

“Yes. It reminds me of the woods,” she looks over my outfit, a clean shirt, a jacket to ward off the rain, black pants, and my usual heavy work boots. “What’s your favourite colour?”

“Orange,” I say. She wrinkles her nose.

“Like Effie Trinket’s hair?” she asks, and I laugh.

“No. Not _that_ orange. Something muted, like a sunset.”

At this, she nods and smiles. I wonder what kind of sunsets she’s seen, beyond the fence, somewhere deep in the hills and valleys outside Twelve.

“Madge told me that your sister visited?” I ask, sensing that we’ve pretty much ignored our host for the past ten minutes. Katniss nods, sitting up slightly in her seat. Madge pours more tea into each of our cups.

“Yeah,” she smiles. “That was nice. She couldn’t believe how nice the mansion was. How many clothes I had. The fact that I was in a dress.”

Madge laughs openly at this, prompting the two of us to do the same.

“How is she finding the Hawthornes?” I ask after a moment.

Katniss shakes her head in amusement. “Well, Rory is there, too, so she’s just fine.”

The rain stops by the evening, and I make to leave, having spent the afternoon at the mansion. It’s the most I’ve spoken to Katniss in one sitting, since most of our conversations while trading were short and stilted. It’s nice to know more about her than what she wants to trade, and how she’s doing. Even simple facts, like that her favourite colour is green, make me feel happy.

Madge leads me out once I’ve said goodbye.

“You’re practically skipping,” she says wryly and I narrow my eyes at her. She elbows me, grinning. “Thank you for coming over. I know she enjoys talking to you.”

I smile. “Is she bored of you already?”

“We’ve been friends for years now. It’s not as exciting anymore.”

“You think she finds me exciting?”

“More so than me and two Avoxes.”

We walk in silence for a moment more, and once we reach the front door, I stop. A single thought has been plaguing me ever since Madge gave me that second note, telling me when I would be able to visit.

“Why are you allowing me to come here?” I ask. “Is it just because you know I like her? What do you get from this?”

Madge looks at me like I’m stupid. “I want to help you, Peeta. And Katniss, more than anything. You’re part of her old life. She needs that connection, however small.” She leans heavily on the door, watching the water dripping onto the steps. A fine mist has encroached over the lawns, making the mansion look like it’s floating in the clouds. “Should you really complain if it means you get to see her?”

“You make me sound like a—”

“A lovesick school boy?”

“Those aren’t the words I would have used.”

“Really?”

“No. I’m not at school anymore.”

Madge grins, shoving me slightly. Her eyes soften. “You’ll be good for her, I think. She needs all the good she can get right now and I can’t provide everything she might want or need.”

“And when your father returns? When he doesn’t have business to attend to?”

“You can sneak in through the same door Katniss traded at.” I give her a look and she shoots one right back at me. “Don’t worry, Peeta. I’ll find a way.”

“I didn’t know you were such a schemer,” I tell her, and she winks.

“I’m an Undersee,” she echoes. “And necessity compels.”

I hug her tightly to me. “You’re a good friend, Madge.”

“And you’re a fool, Peeta,” she says into my shoulder before pulling away. “For not doing something about her sooner.”

Her words strike me deep in my heart, and she looks marginally apologetic, though I know she didn’t mean it maliciously. I nod, tell her I’ll see her again soon, and turn on my heel. My boots thud against the steps, splashing in the pools of water collected there, and squelch in the sodden gravel of the driveway. I’m thankful it’s stopped raining, but the moisture in the air is unpleasant.

I’ve walked some way up the driveway when I realise that I’m utterly surrounded by mist, unable to see more than a few meters in front of me. It’s eerie, my skin prickling, especially when I hear the sound of footsteps on gravel. I panic for a minute, wondering if it’s the Mayor back from his business trip, but surely he’d travel by car from the station, and not on foot?

Sure enough, it isn’t the Mayor, but Tullia and Stillman, back from their trip outside of the mansion boundaries. I now see what Madge meant by disguising them to blend in with the crowds. Both are in greys, browns, and greens, and you could easily walk past them without a second thought. Stillman holds two bulging paper bags, and Tullia and third. They’re smiling as they walk, clearly feeling freer when it’s just the two of them, with nothing but the mist to keep them company.

They nod as they walk by, and I nod back.

Within seconds, they’ve melted into the mist, though I hear chuckling even as I reach the gates and let myself out, back into the depths of the Quarters.

…

The following week, the Mayor comes lumbering into my office completely unannounced. For a second I’m stunned by a wave of déjà vu, half expecting a hooded Katniss to come in after him, but he mercifully shuts the door behind him, alone, and strides right up to my desk. I lean back in my seat, wary at the way he approaches.

“Mr Mayor?” I ask, and he stops, thrusting one hand out in my direction. A smile rolls over his face.

“Mr Mellark,” he says. I stand, shaking his clammy palm. “Don’t look so alarmed!”

“Sir,” I say, smiling in relief. “I wasn’t expecting you, is all. How are you?”

“I’m fine. Just got back from business out of the district.”

“I hope it went well?” I ask as he removes his jacket, hanging it on the back of his chair. I sit, shuffle some of the papers on my desk.

The Mayor huffs, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket to dab at his forehead. “Well, you know business. Sometimes it’s good… sometimes it’s difficult.” He chuckles, shaking his head. I think of Madge’s words and can’t imagine that he’s just talking about government business. “Anyway, enough about me. I’m here to check in on our newest clerk, and to congratulate you on your good work.”

“Thank you, sir,” I say. “I appreciate it.”

“My associates agree that you’ve been a valuable addition to the Justice Building. That you have a keen eye for the details.” I sit back in my chair again, fiddling with my tie. The Mayor catches my eye, and I then understand that he knows about the incident with Cray. I want to question why he knows about Cray’s debt, and how come it has him so concerned, but play dumb instead.

“Growing up the bakery made it a necessary skill."

“What a good quality to have for this job,” he says. “Though I’d advise you not to get too caught up in it all. Sometimes the details… the minutia… they’re not essential. There are more important things.”

“I’m sure there are,” I say, and we smile pleasantly at each other.

There’s a moment of silence, and then I decide to do exactly what he’s advising me to do. I move on from the details.

“So, how are you and your wife?” I ask. “It was an honour to marry the two of you, sir.”

“We’re doing well,” he replies. “After my wife died… I needed company. The mansion can be lonely.”

I think of Madge again.

“That’s understandable. It must be a big house. And it must seem rather empty after so many years of marriage. I don’t believe I’ve been able to fully extend my condolences.”

“Thank you. She was unwell for some time. I think she was ready to go.” His brow furrows as he stares at the desk, deep in thought.

“She was a good woman. She raised Madge well.”

“I forget you know my daughter,” he shakes his head.

“It’s a small district, sir.”

“That it is,” he murmurs in agreement, before standing. “I should be getting on. I have further business to attend to.”

“Thank you for visiting, sir.”

We both stand. He shakes my hand again, attempting to pull my hand forward in some kind of power move, but I resist, and he relents.

I move to show him out, and as we approach the door, he stops, looking at the paintings I’ve hung on the wall. There are two near to the door, one of a street in the Quarters, and another of the distant mountains, beyond the fence, the sun setting against the horizon. The Mayor points to them, tilting one of the canvases slightly as he admires them.

“Lovely work,” he comments. “I don’t recognise the artist. Were they here when you arrived?”

“No, sir. I added them to brighten up the office.”

“You painted these yourself?”

“I did.”

He looks back at the painting, bushy eyebrows raised. “Impressive.”

“Thank you,” I reply as he rocks back on his heels. “Like you said. I have an eye for the details.”

He laughs. “In more ways than one.” He smacks me on the shoulder. I open the office door for him. “I’ll be sure to keep an eye on your work.”

“Thank you, sir. Not the minutia, I hope.”

He laughs again, stepping out in the hallway, shrugging his jacket over his heavy frame. I close the door once he reaches the end of the hallway, and straighten the painting.

Later that day, as I sign out of the Justice Building, Mrs Wellester asks me how the Mayor was.

“He was fine…” I trail off, confused by her question. “I wasn’t expecting him.”

“I added him to your schedule at the last minute,” she replies, leaning forward and lowering her voice a little. “No one else wants to work with him. Not directly. Flattree used to handle him.”

“So you got his replacement to do it?” I ask, and she narrows her eyes before shrugging, a small smile playing on her lips.

“Have a good weekend, Peeta,” she says, and I smile back to her, glad she’s started to warm to me to some degree. As I leave the Justice Building, I can’t help but wonder why no one worked with the Mayor except for my old mentor, but push the thought aside. I’m not at work anymore. I don’t need to think about it.

…

The remnants of June drag on, the weather getting drier and drier with each passing day. Usually I dread the heat, knowing that I’ll be stuck in the kitchens all day, but now that I’m in the Justice Building, I can crack the window open and turn the vents onto full power and bask in cool air. Rye is not in the slightest bit appreciative when I mention this to him.

Yet the bakery kitchens aren’t the biggest threat that arises alongside the heat.

The children of Panem know that when the sun begins to shine day after day, when the ground cracks and your shirt clings to your skin, that the Reaping is close by.

Even now that I’m safe from the Games, that deep-seated fear rears its head. The air is thick with tension and people’s tempers are quick to break. Peacekeepers make more arrests in the month of June than at any time as the cabin fever sets in, and people want nothing more than to break free of the Capitol. The population gets restless, and in a small district like Twelve, the pressure builds and builds until something explodes.

Reaping Day arrives, hot and dreadful, and the fear that has been building comes to a head. I wake drenched in sweat and can’t eat a thing, instead spending my morning with Rye and Damson. Our conversation is stilted and solemn. Damson has to go upstairs and lie down, blaming the heat even though we all know that’s the least of our problems.

“You’re alright, little brother,” Rye says, resting his elbows on the kitchen table. Even with the ovens off and the windows and door wide open, the room retains a level of heat high enough to put a sheen on his skin.

I trace the grooves in the wood, feel the years of flour embedded in the grain.

“The feeling never leaves you,” Rye says. And then, in an afterthought: “It never will.”

“I know,” I reply, curling my hand into a fist. This fear is the same as the ones from childhood. The monster under your bed or in your closet. Or the ones that lurk in dark corners and in basements. You think you’ve outgrown them, but they’re in your bloodstream now. Part of you.

At midday, we eat lunch. Then, once Damson has changed into a clean dress, and Rye has pulled on a more formal shirt, we make our way to the square. Attendance is mandatory yet despite the number of people flooding towards the Reaping stage, corralled by patrolling Peacekeepers, it’s eerily quiet. We find our parents and stand with them, talking quietly among ourselves, and after a few minutes Fen appears with his wife and young daughter. I haven’t seen him for some time, though it's unfortunate that it’s under these circumstances that I should get to catch up with him. We fall silent eventually, the heat and the buzzing of the television screens above the stage rendering us unable to make good conversation.

Those eligible for the Reaping are herded into lines. I spot Delly’s brother in his line, Rory and Vick Hawthorne mouthing something to each other from their own. Just ahead of Vick is Primrose Everdeen. I feel my stomach roll. Even the Mayor’s family aren’t exempt. Madge never was and I suspect that even if she was, the Mayor wouldn’t seek to extend that privilege to his wife’s sister. Prim is wearing a pale blue dress for the occasion, her hair tied back in an elegant twist. I can’t help but see it almost as a homage to her older sister. For our last Reaping, Katniss wore what could be the exact same dress, her hair braided and coiled at the nape of her neck.

Once the children are in place, they’re cordoned off from the rest of the crowd, and the usual gaggle of people arrive onstage to the sound of the Panem anthem. First, a few officials from the Capitol, here to make sure things are orderly, and then Head Peacekeeper Cray close behind. Next, Haymitch Abernathy, our only surviving victor. Then it’s Mayor Undersee, Madge, and Katniss. I follow her movements as she moves to stand beside the Mayor. I don’t even realise the Escort has appeared, forgetting to applaud until mother jabs me with her elbow.

Katniss is dressed in a pale, lilac dress, and wears a large sunhat to ward off the bright rays. She looks uncomfortable, fully aware that the entirety of the district can see her, and that she’s magnified by the television screens above her head. What an occasion to make your first official public appearance at. She sits when the Mayor sits, stands when he does, and claps after he finishes his usual speech.

She’s distracted. Her focus isn’t on the people around her, isn’t on the Escort’s ridiculous voice and outfit, her eyes instead roaming the rows of kids in front of her, standing where she used to be. She’s looking for Prim amidst the crowds. I can’t imagine how she must feel, to be stood on the same stage her sister could be yanked onto, unable to do anything, despite her significant change in status and wealth. She’s still powerless against the Reaping.

She closes her eyes as the President’s voice fills the square, blasted from the monitors. Madge, dressed in a flowing pink skirt and pale blouse, fans herself with her hand, eyes averted from the crowds in front of her. It’s her first time up here too. She places her hand on Katniss’ arm, but doesn’t get a response. She leans in a little, shifting her body in her seat, and says something no one has a chance of hearing. Katniss opens her eyes, looks at Madge, and then turns to the Mayor, whispering to him. She lays a hand on his, and he looks pleased. Madge looks upset. I feel my stomach pitch at the Mayor taking the hand of his wife. At her letting him.

When the Escort walks towards the glass spheres holding the names of this year’s tributes, and I hold my breath. I look away from Katniss and whatever is going on between her husband and Madge, and focus on the Reaping. The Escort plucks a slip from the ball and carries it over to the microphone with flourish, her heels clacking on the rickety stage. The cameras follow her every movement.

She reads out the first name.

It isn’t Prim.

The Escort reads out the name of our second tribute.

It isn’t a Cartwright. It isn’t a Hawthorne. It isn’t a sibling of one of my friends. We’ve escaped.

A woman cries as the two tributes – a twelve year old boy and an eighteen year old girl – stand on the stage. The Escort cheers and asks for applause, though she should know by now that she will not get any. Haymitch belches and trips onto the floor. The Capitol seal spins on the television screens, congratulating our tributes.

They stand there for a moment longer, flies in amber, before being whisked away into the Justice Building.

The crowds disperse. I’m caught up in the wave of people trying to exit the square as quickly as possible, but manage to witness the Mayor shaking hands with the Escort, and introducing her to his new wife.

…

The games result in an unexpected win for the female tribute from District 11, who survived an arena consisting of high walkways and ladders simply by swinging from place to place. She spent time in the orchards, she says. She just had to hang on, and pretend the arena was filled with trees.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> saturnblushes on tumblr and pinterest. come say hello!


	5. i may watch you go

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and the schemes begin

With the Games over and the tributes back and buried, life mostly returns to normal. I work at the Justice Building, help out at the bakery, and spend time with friends. I don’t hear from Madge or see her for some time. From the window in my apartment, the one that overlooks the street, I spot Vick Hawthorne prowling through the streets early in the morning, a hunting bag over his shoulder. Gale’s been in the mines for a few years now, and Vick had to take over the bulk of the trading duty. He’s skinnier and shorter than his brother, but at a distance, it’s difficult to tell who he is.

My work at the Justice Building is much the same. Despite the games, nothing changes. Paperwork piles up on my desk during August as the heat begins claiming lives, even in the Quarters. I go home weary, feeling the weight of district-wide deaths on my shoulders.

Two weeks after the end of the Games, once the television broadcasts have ended, I sign into the Justice Building and find that a meeting with the Mayor has been scheduled. I sigh and Mrs Wellester wishes me luck.

The Mayor arrives fifteen minutes later than the time scheduled, and makes no attempts to apologise. He sits down and talks about meaningless things for some time, before finally getting to what he came here to speak to me about.

“I have been attempting to hire a competent portraitist for some time,” he says, looking back from his seat at the paintings he admired just a few weeks earlier. “But have not been able to source one outside of the district. I then thought of you, and your clear talent in the medium.”

“Thank you, sir,” I say, slightly confused. “Though I must admit I’m not following.”

“I need a portrait of my new wife. It has been a tradition in the Undersee household, to celebrate such events in the form of painted artworks. We hang them around the mansion. I am commissioning you to paint for me.”

I’m stunned. This wasn’t what I was expecting at all.

“Sir–” I stutter but he waves his hand at me.

“You will continue to work at the Justice Building. I will arrange for you to work fewer days. You will be on my payroll. All I need is for you to agree, and then we’ll be able to order whatever supplies you need from the Capitol.”

I stare at the desk, at where the varnish has been worn over countless years of use.

“Mr Mayor,” I begin. “I’m just a clerk.”

“A clerk with an exceptional skill. When will you get an opportunity like this again? Never, not in this district.”

He’s right. Twelve is small and poor. People don’t have the means for extravagant items like painted portraits. Most people, especially those in the Seam, will only ever have one photograph of themselves, and that is when they are married. I don’t recall seeing any portraits at the mansion the last two times I was there, but I don’t care to mention that to the Mayor.

“I have realised that hiring someone from my own district is much more patriotic,” says the Mayor. “And more cost-effective since I won’t have to provide board for an artist from elsewhere in Panem.” He pauses. “I think I can trust you, young man.”

Finally, I agree. I can’t help but wonder if Madge has had a hand in this.

“I would be honoured, sir,” I tell him, and he claps his hands together and rises. I follow. He shakes my hand in a tight-gripped, jerky movement.

“Excellent. Come to dinner this evening and we can discuss further arrangements.”

I nod in agreement and move to show him to the door. Rye and Damson won’t mind me cancelling at the last minute. They’ll know I have no choice but to do so.

…

The walk to the mansion feels longer than it ever has before, and I know it’s because this time the Mayor will be there too. This will be markedly different from previous visits. The atmosphere will be different. I will be privy to how the new Undersee family works.

I’ve dressed in my smartest clothes. Damson fixed a loose button on my shirt and Rye told me not to flirt with the Mayor’s wife. I gave him a look that made him laugh and Damson scold him, but I think we all knew that the repercussions of such a thing would be serious.

Not that I plan on that happening. I may be in love with Katniss Everdeen, but she isn’t in love with me. Madge said so herself. I’m just a connection to her old life, and a tenuous one at that. Besides, even if she did one day feel that way about me, we could nothing about it.

I attempt to clear my head as I step through the gates. This isn’t what I need right now. I need to focus on the task ahead.

Stillman lets me in. His eyes are dark like coal, glittering in the dying sunlight outside. He stares at me more than usual. I can’t imagine what is going through his head right now, though his look seems to serve as some kind of warning.

The Mayor greets me in a large room that overlooks the front of the property. I feel uneasy knowing that he likely watched me walking down the driveway but push the feeling away as he shakes my hand and starts talking about the interior of the room, explaining how his mother had ordered for the mansion to be renovated not long after the second Quarter Quell, and how it has been altered in places ever since, to match with Capitol fashions.

“The newest addition is a glass house. Madge thinks it is a wonderful room, especially in the summer.”

He guides me along and I act like I’ve never been there before, agreeing that yes, the view is splendid, and yes, it is a good addition to the building. As he gestures to the manicured lawn in front of us, I stare at the set of three chairs crowded around the table. What would the Mayor do if he knew I’d been sat there, invited in by his own daughter, no less?

“My wife and daughter are still getting ready for dinner,” Mayor Undersee explains when I ask. He laughs. “You know how women are.”

I offer a placating noise of agreement. I can’t imagine Katniss gives much more of a response to such comments made by her husband.

We reach a corridor I haven’t been in before, one lined with portraits of past Undersees, past mayors of Twelve. Mayor Undersee is kind enough to tell me about each and every one of them.

“And there’s my first wife,” he says, pausing at the second to last painting on the wall. I barely recognise the couple, unable to match their youthful faces to the man stood next to me and Madge’s late mother. In the painting, Mrs Undersee is sat in an ornate chair, her hands clasped together in her lap. She's dressed in fine clothing, though nothing comparable to even the outfits worn by tributes during the parade.

“It’s a lovely painting,” I tell the Mayor, and he hums noncommittally.

“It’s outdated. But yes, at the time, it was lovely.”

The last painting is of Madge herself, several years ago, dressed in frills and sat beside a small dog.

“I must ask, sir,” I say, looking away from Madge’s portrait. “Whose portrait do you wish for me to paint?”

“A new portrait for each of us, to replace the old ones. Will that be too much work?”

“Not at all. I just… you must realise that the process will be rather time-consuming?”

“If it is wages you are concerned about, I can assure you that you will be paid much more generously than if you remained working only at the Justice Building.”

“Wages aren’t my concern, sir,” I shake my head. “I just don’t want to disappoint you if the portraits take some time to complete.”

“My boy,” he replies, placing a hand on my shoulder and laughing. “I have all the time in the world, and so do you. There is no rush.”

“Of course, sir,” I bow my head.

We enter a room smaller than the one previous, and a few moment later, Tullia appears, with Madge and Katniss close behind. I stand from the overstuffed couch but the Mayor remains sitting. I smooth down my jacket, suddenly overcome with nerves. Both of them wear formal dresses; Madge in a gentle, dusty pink, and Katniss in a yellow-green shade.

“Peeta, hello,” Madge says. “I’m so glad you can join us.”

“I’m happy to be here,” I say, and she raises her hand for me to kiss. It feels utterly ridiculous to do so with someone I’ve been friends with for so longer, but I’m not about to cause a scene, not with so much at stake.

“Peeta, you of course know my wife, Katniss,” the Mayor says from his seat, and I nod.

“Yes,” I acknowledge him though don’t look away from her as she stands there. I approach, ducking my head a little, and she offers her hand in a stilted, unpractised motion. I maintain eye contact as I press a soft kiss against her knuckles. She pulls away a second later, and I nod to her in a minute tilt of my head. _I will keep the secret. I will not tell. You are safe._

We chat and mingle together for a few minutes. Katniss is very quiet, and the Mayor takes the reigns of the conversation, controlling it as much as he can. I think of how relaxed Katniss was – Madge too, even – when Mayor Undersee was gone. It’s a completely different atmosphere now. Madge does not smile. Katniss sits bolt upright. We do not discuss our favourite colours.

Stillman appears, then, to announce that dinner is ready. We enter a rectangular dining room lit by gaudy chandeliers and flanked by large windows draped in curtains, and take our seats, the Mayor at the head of the table, Katniss to his right, Madge beside her, and myself opposite the two of them. Tullia pours glasses of wine for all except the Mayor, who drinks some kind of liquor, before she leaves the room, only for Stillman to reappear and begin serving the evening’s starter. The two Avoxes are like cogs in a well-oiled machine. I’m convinced that they can’t be working alone, that there are more servants somewhere in this building, cooking and cleaning.

The starter is a rich soup, and the Mayor explains that this meal is similar to those served to winning tributes.

“Mind you, we haven’t had many of those dinners,” he chuckles, as if the deaths of countless children are something to laugh about. “But I enjoy having guests. Gives me an excuse to eat such fine meals.”

The soup is delicious, and conversation flows smoothly, though Katniss is still silent. She focuses on her food, not the conversation. She looks much better now that she has daily meals, her cheeks no longer hollow, her hands no longer skeletal. But that look in her eyes… the deadened stare, is still present, as if she hasn’t left the Seam at all.

I almost drop my spoon when her eyes finally flicker up to meet mine. Electricity surges through my spine, stinging me, and I exhale. Katniss looks away. I do too.

“So, Peeta, how well did you know my daughter?” Mayor Undersee asks during the main course, wiping oil from his lips with a napkin.

“We were in many classes together at school,” I tell him, looking at Madge. “Which really isn’t that remarkable given the population of Twelve.”

“He was always a good student,” Madge speaks up. “And a wrestler, too, papa.”

“Oh really?”

I nod. “Yes sir.”

“He beat everyone else. Even his younger brother Rye.”

“On a technicality,” I correct her, and the Mayor laughs.

“Your brother must agree with that, I’m sure.”

“He refuses to admit that I won,” I respond, and he chuckles, snapping his fingers for Tullia to pour more liquor into his glass. I watch Katniss watch the amber liquid. She’s barely touched her own.

“You must have had classes with Katniss, then?” he asks, and she looks up at the mention of her name.

“Yes,” I reply. “About the same as Madge. They were quite good friends too.”

“A fortunate circumstance,” the Mayor says, looking at his wife. “Were you as quiet as this at school as well?” he asks, and her eyes widen slightly. She glances at me.

“Peeta was always the better conversationalist,” she says quietly, her voice measured, restrained – no longer holding the sharp edge or the lingering musicality I am used to hearing.

“That I can see,” the Mayor says. There’s a moment of silence, before Stillman arrives to take away our plates, and provides us with a new topic of conversation in the form of dessert. I’m already struggling with the meal, not used to such rich items or such full plates. The dessert is a delicate concoction of spun sugar and fruit. It’s much fancier than anything at the bakery, so I’m certain that this food has been prepared by someone in the Capitol and shipped here for the Undersees. I eat it all despite my full stomach, marvelling at how the sugar melts away on my tongue. There’s no way we’d be able to make this in the bakery.

Once the meal is over, we retire to a lounge. Madge sits at the piano, trying to teach Katniss, while the Mayor pulls me aside to discuss the paintings. He asks me to put together a list of things I need so a shipment can be sent as soon as possible, and tells me that the Justice Building will be informed of my employment under him by the end of the week.

“Your job is secure, of course,” he assures me, and I thank him.

Then, Stillman enters the room and signs at the Mayor.

“I apologise. It seems I have a business call waiting for me. Please, mingle. I will be back in a moment,” he says, bustling away. I hear him scold Stillman as they leave the room, and wait for the door to close before looking over at Katniss and Madge.

“I’m so sorry, Peeta,” Madge says, standing from the bench and approaching. “I had no idea you were coming until just before dinner. If I had known sooner I’d have tried to let you know what you were getting yourself into.”

“It’s okay, Madge,” I reassure her. “Honestly. It’s fine.”

She grimaces, the look a stark contrast to her gown and makeup. “It isn’t. I’m sorry you got dragged into this.”

I shake my head. “I agreed to it.”

“What? Why?” she asks, as if I’d instead volunteered at the Reaping.

“Not the dinner,” I reply. “Not specifically. He came into my office this morning. He wants me to paint your portraits.”

Madge’s eyes widen. “Oh.”

“He told me this dinner was to discuss business. I didn’t feel like I had a choice.”

Madge pulls me over to the piano.

“Hello, Katniss,” I say, and she presses down on a piano key, the sound chiming through the air between us. “How are you?”

“I’m okay,” she responds. “How are you?”

“Good. Rye said Vick does the trading now. I saw him the other day.”

“Gale’s in the mines,” she nods, getting a faraway look in her eyes. “How is Vick?”

“I think he’s okay. Rye said he was much more talkative than his brother.”

Katniss smiles. She runs her finger gently over the keys so they don’t make a sound. “He always was. Though that isn’t saying anything compared to Gale.”

There’s a lull, then. Madge sits down beside Katniss, smoothing down the skirts of her dress.

“You both look lovely,” I tell them, lost in the new formality of this place. Madge simply shrugs.

“This is an old dress. My father bought Katniss a _new_ one from the Capitol.” Katniss narrows her eyes at her friend. “Hey, it’s true,” Madge laughs a little, the sound like wind chimes. “He has favourites.”

“It’s a horrible dress,” Katniss mutters, and I can’t help but laugh too. She looks up at me, eyes flashing. “It’s horrible, isn’t it Peeta?”

I feel my face heat up at her sudden focus on me but manage to produce an answer that makes sense. “It’s not your style.”

“I feel like a sack of grain,” she sighs, pushing a curl of hair over her shoulder.

“Some people find sacks of grain rather good-looking,” Madge teases, eyeing me and ignoring my look of _don’t you dare_. Katniss snorts.

“Like who?”

“Like the guy who grew up in a bakery,” Madge says, and Katniss looks to me again.

“You think I look good in this?” she asks, gesturing to the material of her outfit.

This time, I can’t help but stumble over my words. “I mean… it’s… like I said. It’s not your style.”

Madge laughs loudly, then, and Katniss scowls. I can’t hide my smile, and eventually Katniss is smiling too, concocting a short, cheerful melody from the piano as Madge patrols the lower keys with ease. I listen, unable to tear my eyes away from Katniss. Yes, the dress is a poor fit and not a good colour on her, but she still looks amazing. She takes my breath away.

The Mayor reappears a while later, once the sun has slivered below the mountains in the distance. Katniss stops playing but Madge continues, though the tune becomes decidedly melancholy.

“I should be heading home,” I say, looking out of the window at the darkening grounds. “After all I do still have work tomorrow.”

“Stillman will show you out,” Mayor Undersee says, shaking my hand. “I hope you enjoyed your evening.”

“I most definitely did,” I reply. “I will send you a list of items as soon as possible.”

The Mayor is flushed red from the liquor he’s consumed, and slaps me on the back like he’s trying to dislodge food from my windpipe. I say goodbye to Katniss and Madge and the Mayor thanks me for agreeing to paint for him, walking me to the door and opening it.

“Your work will have pride of place in these hallowed halls," he says grandly.

“I hope I can do you all justice," I say.

“I don’t doubt that you will, young man,” he responds. Stillman appears and the Mayor shakes my hand again, before vanishing the way we came. I can only hope that Madge and Katniss have retired. I don’t believe either of them are in the mood to deal with him tonight.

At the front door, I halt and look up at Stillman.

“Do you think I’ve made a mistake, coming here?” I ask him, not certain of what answer I’ll get, if any. But the man has obviously learnt how to communicate despite his lack of tongue, and glances down the corridor before returning his attention to me.

He nods, and I feel my stomach roll.

“Oh.”

He waves his hand, and points down the darkening corridor.

“The Mayor?”

He nods and wags his finger as if to say ‘bad’. Then, he wiggles his fingers, mimicking the piano, and runs his hand over his hair and pulls it down the side of his neck.

“Madge?” I guess, and then figure that the second gesture is alluding to a braid. “And Katniss?”

He places his hand over his chest, over his heart, and nods solemnly. I furrow my brow.

“Are they okay?” I ask, my voice reduced to a whisper. Stillman’s nostrils flair, but he still answers with a small nod. I press my lips together. Although it wasn’t an entirely positive response, one that instead indicates unrest, I feel I can trust the Avox. That he’s my side.

“Thank you, Stillman,” I say. He tilts his head slightly downwards, and pulls open the front door. I shake his hand. He seems surprised, but waves in acknowledgement when I turn to look back at the house, a little way down the gravel drive. The mansion is lit up like a beacon against the gloomy backdrop of the sky, casting long shadows over the grass. The stars are still visible, and on my walk home, I spy the small pinpricks of light pushing through the canopy of darkness stretching above my head.

…

I sleep, and dream of music, wafting through tree branches, heavy as the scent of freshly baked bread.

…

I have a list of supplies sent to the Mayor by the end of the week, detailing what will be required to ensure I can create work that is worth what the Mayor is paying me. Come Monday, I work at the Justice Building as usual. Tuesday is the same, but when I come home, it’s to a wrapped package sat on my doorstep, printed with the Capitol seal. I take it inside and remove the wrapping, revealing a set of sketchbooks and a tin of fine, sharp pencils. I asked for some to take initial drawings of the Mayor, Katniss, and Madge to build the paintings from, detailing to Mr Undersee the process of creating a proper portrait. I want to do it right, especially if he’s paying me so much to do so.

I marvel over the soft paper, the crisp edge of each leaf. Books are contraband items in Panem but for a handful of permitted items, and even they are damaged, worn, and hastily bound. This is premium quality, probably from the finest mills in District 7. The pencils line the tin perfectly, each one exactly weighted to balance in my hand.

I swipe the lead across the paper, practising strokes with the pencil until I’m used to the medium. It’s much cleaner and precise than the rough stubs of charcoal I’ve often used, and I find that my sketches are quicker and sharper, allowing me to conjure shapes and forms with relative ease.

By the time I’ve filled two pages with practise sketches, it’s late into the evening, the sun dipping below the horizon. My stomach rumbles, so I set about making a quick meal, before returning to sketch. I’ve never before felt intimidated or anxious about creating such work, but with the expectations of the Mayor weighing on me, I feel restless, unable to sleep until gone midnight.

On Wednesday, I wake early, still keeping baker’s hours. I sit by the window to eat breakfast, listening and watching the Quarters below burst to life in the few hours of cool, still air that linger in the cobbled streets before the sun fully brightens the sky. I watch a few miners passing by, watch Merchants heading to their stalls in the square or preparing their businesses for customers. I see birds swooping past, the tops of trees in the distance swaying, and smell smoke beginning to rise as the mines start up again. Vick Hawthorne ducks past, and I call out to him, my voice loud in the quiet in the street but soft enough to stop others from looking in.

He stops and looks around, and I wave until he spots me.

“What do you have to trade?” I ask, and he looks up and down the street before answering.

“Rabbits. A turkey but that’s reserved for the bakery.”

“Can you spare a rabbit?” I ask, and he nods. I promise to be down in a just a moment and move to grab a small pouch of coins, unlocking the door to Vick standing a few feet from the step.

“Vick, right?” I say, and he nods. He’s less suspicious than Gale and Rory, with thick, curly hair and a softer jaw.

“You’re the baker’s son?” he asks, and I nod in return.

“Yeah. I work at the Justice Building now, though.”

He pulls a rabbit from the bag on his back, clearly not too interested in my employment prospects. I hand him the money, and his eyes widen at the coins.

“Mister… this is too much for one rabbit.”

“Take it. And if your brother asks, send him straight here.”

Vick’s eyes flash, not with aggression or fear, but almost in anticipation, as if he is looking forward to the occasion.

“I will,” he nods, pocketing the money. “Thank you.”

“You hunt this yourself?”

He nods, proud.

“Almost as good as Katniss Everdeen,” I tell him, and he beams, clearly thrilled with the compliment.

“Almost,” he says, half-shrugging. “Not quite.”

“How’re you finding the hunting?” I ask. With Katniss gone and Vick’s brother in the mines, I can’t imagine it’s easy for him to be out there alone.

“It’s okay,” he says. “There’s not enough food at the Hob so I need to bring it in myself.”

I nod in understanding. The trains have been increasingly infrequent recently, driving up prices and forcing people to find new ways of getting by, though that’s practically second nature in Twelve. Until things return to normal elsewhere in Panem, people just have to do what they can.

Vick tells me he should be getting on, and I let him go, happy to have provided him with another customer, and happy to have fresh meat again. I didn’t realise how much I’d missed it until I had to go to the butcher’s and purchase lower quality stuff sent in all the way from District 11.

I place the rabbit in the cooler to deal with later, and dress for my first day at the Mayor’s house. My wardrobe is limited, and I scribble onto a scrap of paper as a reminder to myself to purchase some more clothes. I don’t suppose the Mayor would be impressed if I showed up in creased shirts and dusty boots. I choose a loose shirt that isn’t too old but not to new, either, wary that paint and charcoal tends to get everywhere. I pack my things into a bag and am shining my shoes when there’s a knock at the door.

When I answer, it’s to a Peacekeeper.

“Mr Mellark?” they ask, and I nod. “I have been instructed to escort you to the Undersee Mansion,” they say, and I nod again, albeit in relief that I’m not in trouble.

I ask them to give me a moment to grab my things, and they go to wait out in the street. I quickly pull on my shoes, run a hasty comb through my hair, and sling my bag over my shoulder, shutting the door to the apartment and locking it behind me.

In the street, the Peacekeeper is listening to their earpiece, and says something into it when they see me approaching, their voice audible through the visor. They doesn’t talk and I don’t try to make conversation, concentrating on keeping up with their fast pace through the streets.

They doesn’t ask me why I’m going to the mansion, though I imagine they have already been informed. The earpiece buzzes sporadically during the walk, but they doesn’t respond. I’m curious as to what they can hear, what the other Peacekeepers say to each other. The sounds I can hear only make me more curious.

At the gates of the mansion, they press the call button and says that _Peeta Mellark is here by request of the Mayor_ , and when the gate buzzes, they open it to let me in. Then, they ensure the gate is closed behind, and leave me to walk up alone. This behaviour is strange. I’ve never been escorted before, and it’s odd that they stand at the gate and watch me until I enter the house itself.

I push away those thoughts when Stillman answers the door. He leads me through the house, and I see that the old portrait of the Undersees from the foyer has been removed. Where the frame once sat is a rectangle of darker paint, when the light has not been able to fade the colour over time.

Stillman opens another door to a large room with shiny floors, ornate ceilings, and dark panelling on the walls. Huge windows spanning two walls allow bright sunlight to flow in, illuminating the space. Madge and Katniss sit in the centre of the room, reclining in velvet couches, and both stand when the two of us enter.

“Peeta!” Madge greets me, her skirts swishing over the floor as she approaches. “How are you?”

“Good, Madge. How are you?”

“Fine, fine,” she says. “Thank you, Stillman.”

The Avox leaves and Madge pulls me over to where Katniss sits, sipping tea.

“My father is attending to business, so won’t be here for an hour or so, but he instructed that you start anyway. Is this room okay? Or would you like to move?”

“This will be perfect,” I say, admiring how the light streams through the windows, some thrown open to let in a breeze. “Hello, Katniss. How are you?”

“I’m okay,” she replies. I nod, smile. I hate the sudden awkwardness that has permeated our relationship. We may not have had especially lengthy conversations before, but at least they were never bound like they are, into a formal, restricted shape that gives us no space to breathe.

“Who chose today’s outfits?” I ask, and Madge laughs. Katniss scowls.

Madge wears a satin pink gown, well-fitted and reaching the ground in billowy waves. Katniss, meanwhile, is in a green dress that ties in close around her waist and flares out at the hips.

“We did,” Madge says. “Katniss wouldn’t have let my father choose again.”

“I hated the colour from last time,” Katniss sighs, and Madge fondly pinches her arm before turning to me and my satchel of items.

“So, Peeta. How do you want us?”

I look around the space, and figure out where I’m going to stand in relation to where they’re sitting.

“Relaxed,” I say. “Just drink tea… chat. I don’t want you to be stiff and formal. These sketches are just rough plans before I actually start on the portraits.”

“No posing?” Madge asks, sticking her chin out. “I was studying the Capitol models. Don’t you want us to be like that?”

“You’ll end up stuck in that pose if you’re not careful,” I say, and Madge sticks her tongue out at me.

I take a seat on a bench upholstered with a rich, red velvet, and pull out my art supplies. When I flip to a fresh page and look up at Katniss and Madge, I see how they’re posing, self-conscious that I’m going to be drawing them.

Back home, at the bakery, I used to spend much of my free time sketching and painting with the little pots of handmade paints my father traded for in town or via the Hob. I liked to sketch people when they were relaxed, allowing me to capture them at their most natural. I could really show their character on the page, whether it was my brothers rolling their eyes, my father in deep concentration, or my mother scowling at the ledger. I wanted to show people as they were.

Whenever I did want to sketch, I tended to do it from memory or by talking to the subject of the piece, until they forgot I even had a pencil in my hand. I do that now, determined to create faithful sketches.

“So, what did you think of the Escort’s outfit this year?” I ask, and to my surprise it’s Katniss who snorts first, some of the tightness in her shoulders instantly dissipating.

“I didn’t think it was possible for someone to wear so many patterns at once,” she says, and I laugh.

“It’s _fashion,_ dear,” says Madge, mimicking the Escort’s strained, hissing voice. “Haven’t you _heard_ of it?”

“I can’t say I have,” Katniss echoes. “I am from the _Seam_ after all.”

“Oh, don’t be silly. Even those from the Seam have _fashion_ ,” Madge retorts.

Katniss laughs then, and I feel my chest swell at the sound. My eyes flicker up and down from the page as my pencil darts across the page, marking down softer lines and building up to surer, bolder ones, allowing shapes to evolve. As the two of them continue to talk, they start to move, too, reaching for tea or curling their legs beneath them on the couches. Madge gestures a lot when she speaks, whereas Katniss is mostly still, her movements much more subtle.

Before I realise, I’ve filled several pages with sketches. Detailed ones capturing facial expressions, loose ones showing limbs and pleats of material. Formal ones, that take in how light and shadow plays on their faces. Sketches paying close attention to the way their dresses move and reflect light litter the page.

The atmosphere is calm, light, between friends, and I bask in it. Katniss blooms like a flower in the genuine conversation, more animated with Madge than I’ve ever really seen her before. The spark in her eyes is intoxicating, flowing through her entire body, through the air, hitting me in wave after wave. I’m drawn to her like a moth to a flame, unable to pull my eyes away but to mark down more lines on the paper. If she notices how my gaze lingers more on her than Madge, she doesn’t say a word.

All too soon, Mayor Undersee arrives, dressed in a stiff, new suit and looking irritable, his face reddened and his voice loud and grating. Instantly, it’s like all the joy and ease has been sucked from the room, leaving only tension and soberness. The point of my pencil snaps, and I exhale to steady myself.

“My apologies,” says the Mayor, and I stand to shake his hand in greeting. “I had a business issue that required my attention.”

“It’s not a problem,” I say. “I’ve been sketching Madge and Katniss since I arrived."

He looks around. “Where should I sit?”

“Wherever you feel comfortable,” I tell him, returning to my own seat and turning to a fresh page. The Mayor sits beside Katniss, and as I begin to sketch, I see how the tightness in her limbs has quickly returned. I draw the Mayor as he talks, and thankfully Madge is able to contribute to the conversation so there aren’t any awkward silences.

While Madge and Katniss are all elegant, sweeping lines and soft angles, the Mayor is all sharp corners and uneven curves, with shadows landing on his face much more than any light. I hate to have to draw them all together. They no longer feel free and relaxed. Instead, the atmosphere has spoilt, and it translates into my drawings.

After a while, I offer to show them my sketches, and they gather around as I flip through each page, noting down their comments about which images they like best.

“For the portraits themselves, I’ll have you pose and do a quick sketch and then some rough swatches of colour,” I say, thinking ahead to the bigger task. Madge compliments me on the sketches I’ve already completed.

“They’re so realistic,” she says. “It’s amazing how you can capture an image in just a few pencil sketches, Peeta.”

“Have you had any formal training?” her father asks, and I shake my head.

“No. I liked to draw when I was younger and working at the bakery I was always the one to decorate cakes and such… I guess I just improved over time.”

“He’s being modest,” Madge says. “His chalk drawings on the sidewalks were always much better than everyone else’s. He’s a natural.”

I leave an hour or so later, after getting trapped discussing the Justice Building with the Mayor. Madge pulls Katniss away just in time to escape, and I watch them go, wishing I could be with them and not stuck talking about permits, laws, and the Capitol. At the door, Katniss is the final one through, and at last the moment, she turns her head and looks at me. We make eye contact over the Mayor’s shoulder. She raises her hand in a half-wave, smiles, and then vanishes from sight.

…

With these first sketches done, the Mayor instructs that I begin his portrait first, before he leaves for a few weeks in District Six. A Peacekeeper once again walks me to the mansion gates, and I finally ask Madge about it when she greets me at the door.

“There’s been trouble in a few of the other districts,” she says. “A Mayor’s family in Eight died when someone set fire to their house.”

My eyes widen. “So they think it could happen to you too?”

Madge doesn’t appear to be frightened by the possibility, shrugging. “Perhaps.”

“Is that why your father is going to Six?” I ask, and her expression darkens.

“No. He’s going to Six for other reasons.” She looks upset enough that I don’t push for more information, though I’m still curious. I don’t know much about the rest of Panem beyond what we learn in school and through the small snippets of the other districts in the Reaping footage each year. I know that Six is the transportation district, building trains, automobiles, and other vehicles, and maintaining the various rail routes throughout Panem. I can’t see why the Mayor would need or want to be there, since there are no paved roads in Twelve.

“Katniss is visiting her family,” Madge quietly informs me as we walk through the mansion.

“I thought she wasn’t allowed out?”

“She isn’t. My father thinks she’s ill, cooped up in her quarters, not to be disturbed.” Madge eyes me, and I nod in understanding. I’ll keep up the ruse.

Madge opens a door, gesturing for me to step through.

“Mr Mayor,” I say upon entering. “I’m sorry to hear about Katniss.”

“Yes, well, she mentioned she wasn’t feeling too good yesterday, and whatever ailment is afflicting her must have taken hold over the night,” says the Mayor, not looking particularly concerned from his position beside a solid mahogany desk.

Madge escapes while she still can, flashing me an apologetic smile as she tells her father she’s going to check on Katniss. I set up my work station, admiring the large canvas the Mayor ordered in from the Capitol. I’ve never used anything like it before, only scraps of paper from the bakery and the occasional notebook found at the Hob. Those alone are expensive – they’re contraband items that are difficult to source – so I can’t even begin to imagine how much all these materials are.

The Mayor explains that he’s been inspired by old, pre-Dark Day artists, thus the presence of the large desk he’s stood beside. Upon it are several books and even a scroll of something or another. The Mayor is in an expensive-looking suit, well-fitted and well made. This isn’t one of his everyday outfits. This is one he’s ordered in just for this.

I ask him to remain still as I sketch out the general shapes of the portrait, squinting and using my pencil to figure out distances and angles until a basic framework has been established. Then, I begin mixing paints, starting the long, meticulous process of finding the exact right shade for every square inch of the image.

“So, Mr Mayor,” I begin, wanting to break the relative silence that has fallen over the two of us. “Madge tells me you’re headed to District 6?”

“Ah, yes,” he nods. “Business trip,” he explains. “To try and stop the trains from becoming blocked by the snow.”

“Do you think you’ll find a solution?”

He chuckles. “My boy, I hope so. It becomes a real issue when supplies get low. You wouldn’t believe the amount of complaints I received last time.”

I’m glad my face is hidden behind the canvas, so that he can’t see my frustration at how his biggest concern with snow on the tracks is the amount of paperwork he has to deal with.

“Other districts must also have this problem, yes?” I ask.

“Seven and Eight get more snow than we do.”

“How do they get around that?”

“That’s what I’m trying to find out. Just because Twelve is the smallest, doesn’t mean we don’t exist!”

“I agree, sir.”

“Thank goodness the Games aren’t held in the winter,” he laughs, his face reddening. “We’d never be able to get the tributes to the Capitol!”

I swirl some blue and white together, and add a touch of a chestnut brown shade, watching the colours blend into one. “I’m sure they’d find a way to get tributes through,” I tell him, applying the new colour to the canvas, blocking in the colours of his jacket.

“Are you still finding your work enjoyable?” he asks after a moment of silence.

“I am, sir. I’m grateful to have the position.”

“I hope to see you rising through the ranks as a clerk,” he says. “I find it’s always good to have friends close when you’re doing business.”

“And enemies even closer, I should think?” I ask, and he laughs loudly, the sound echoing off the walls.

“That is a wise sentiment,” he nods. “Very wise. Any woman in this district would be lucky to have a husband with your manner of employment.”

“Thank you sir.”

“Any woman should be so lucky as to marry someone who upholds the values of the Capitol. Do you have someone in mind? You must be on the lookout for a bride.”

“I am waiting for the right person,” I reply evenly. _Which is proving to be very difficult, since you have married the one I love._

“There is no need to be particular,” he says. “Not here. Find a wife who will do your bidding. Someone you can mould into what you want.” He narrows his eyes slightly, as if deep in thought. “Women aren’t free-willed, you see. They cannot operate fully without the guidance of a husband or a father.” He looks up at me, and tilts his head slightly, as if getting ready to give me some genuinely good advice. “I know many believe that my marriage to Miss Everdeen, a girl from the Seam no less, is a poor decision. But soon you shall all see how even someone from the poorest of the poor can become good and pure with a little guidance.”

My fingers tighten around the paintbrush at his words. To hear the Mayor saying this kind of thing, to be advocating for it, makes me angry, and I have to focus to stop myself from reacting in a way that would damage my relations with the mayor. To be barred from the mansion would sever any contact I have with Katniss, which is already limited, and mediated by the Mayor’s ventures outside of Twelve.

“Find yourself a wife, Mr Mellark. You will then understand what I am saying.”

“Yes sir,” I reply. “I will, sir.”

He smiles, pleased with my apparent compliance.

Satisfied with my work for the day and sick of listening to his voice, I suggest that we stop a little while after. Mayor Undersee approaches to see what I have completed so far, and nods, slapping me on the back.

“Very good, Mr Mellark.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“When do you suppose it’ll be finished?” he asks.

“Perhaps in two weeks, if I keep up this pace.”

“Good,” he smiles. “I look forward to seeing it on our walls, in pride of place.”

“I do too, sir.”

I cover the canvas to protect it as it dries, and Mayor Undersee calls for Stillman to show me where I can wash my brushes. He shakes my hand and I hide my grimace at how clammy his palms are, wiping my own on my thighs when he turns and leaves, shoes squeaking against the shiny floors.

It’s therapeutic to wash away paint from the brushes, to scrub until the water runs clear. I can forget the past few hours, or at least try to. The Mayor’s words are seared into my mind, now, and I know that I’ll be turning them over again and again and again. The fact that he believes he can mould Katniss into whatever shape he desires makes me sick. Mrs Undersee’s nature makes a lot more sense, now. I can’t imagine having to live with him for so long, to have him distort you into something you’re not.

I believe Katniss to be stronger than that. She has an internal fire that has remained despite the many hardships she has faced. She has survived everything the world has thrown at her. Surely this cannot be what finally quashes her?

Mayor Undersee reduced his first wife to a wasting figure who could never leave her bed. Madge does not seem to have been shaped terribly by her father, seeming to be an independent, free-thinking individual, though this side of her only really shines when her father is not around.

I think of Katniss, of her deadened stare, her stiff figure, and her need to hide away from her husband at any opportunity. Is this just the start of everything? Has Katniss Everdeen truly started to falter under the regime of Mayor Undersee?

I use a paper towel to dry the cleaned brushes and head back to the room holding the canvas. My head feels like it’s filled with flour. It’s hard to think, hard to focus on anything but what may be happening to Katniss in this house.

Madge has appeared and is staring at the painting when I return.

“What do you think?” I ask her and she furrows her brow.

“You have a gift, Peeta,” she says. “A true gift.”

“That doesn’t sound like a compliment.”

“I don’t know if it is,” she sighs. “Not when it means you can capture him so well.”

I step beside her, looking at my work for the day. It’s really only a base, a net from which I’ll build up layers of detail, but you can already see what it will look like in the end. The soft, blended colours of the background, the shine of the wooden desk. And the imposing, dark figure of Mayor Undersee, standing tall in his suit, his eyes slicing into all those that view the portrait.

“You think it’s accurate?”

Madge exhales in wry amusement. “Yes. I do.”

“Better than his other one?”

“Much. That version made him look like a simpering fool.”

I pull the sheet over the canvas again, and put my arm around Madge.

“He’ll be gone soon. To Six,” I tell her in an attempt at reassurance. “Then things will be better.”

“Not soon enough,” she whispers. “For long enough, either.”

“Who knows?” I say. “Perhaps we’ll have some freak weather, and the tracks will get covered with snow.”

Madge smiles, but her eyes remain sad. I pull on her arm, ready to leave the room and the oppressive atmosphere it now harbours.

“Are you leaving?” she asks as we walk down the hallway, towards the foyer. I nod. She cranes her neck to read the time off the large clock on the wall and then looks around, finding the corridors empty. “Come with me,” she says, hurrying away.

“Where are we going?” I ask. “The front door is this way.”

“It’s almost four,” Madge replies, and I frown. Madge looks back at me, her blue eyes pale. “Katniss will be back soon. If you use the side door, you might bump into her. Just follow the path and then the fence. It leads onto a backstreet and you’ll be able to get home from there.”

“Madge—” I begin, and she turns on me.

“What?”

“I don’t know if this is such a good idea…” I trail off, thinking of what Mr Undersee was saying earlier. “If your father finds out what you’re doing—”

“He won’t,” she says, but I can’t find it in myself to believe her. She takes my hand and squeezes tight. “She’ll be wearing a grey shawl.”

“Madge.”

“Peeta. Please.”

“Why?”

“You know why.”

“You can’t be doing this just because—” I lower my voice, looking around. “—just because I have a stupid crush on her.”

“It’s not a stupid crush, Peeta, and I need to know you’re on our side. Things should’ve been different. She should have married you.”

My heart clenches, and I press my lips into a thin line.

“Well, she can’t. And she never will.”

Madge closes her eyes, exhaling. “I can’t change much. But I can change enough.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means I’m giving you a chance. An opportunity.”

“To do what? To go against your father?” I look over my shoulder. “This is ridiculous, Madge. This is dangerous.”

“Not if you keep your voice down and don’t get caught.”

I run my hand through my hair. “Madge, please.”

“I’m helping you. I’m doing what I can.”

“You shouldn’t worry about me,” I tell her. “You shouldn’t. You should think about Katniss.”

Madge touches the side of my face. She smiles. “I am, Peeta.” She pulls open the door, and pushes me outside. “Now go.”

She shuts the door before I can protest, and I look around. A small, worn path leading from this door and into dense shrubbery is visible, and I can’t imagine how many times Katniss and Gale came through here to trade with Madge. As I follow the route, I see how it’s well hidden. From this angle, there aren’t any windows that would allow a person inside the mansion to see if anyone was here, and the shrubbery is thick enough to hide a visitor from sight.

I follow the path until I reach the edge of the Undersee property. A small gate, secured with a small sliding lock, is hidden there, and I open it, finding myself stood on a rarely-travelled track running behind some houses positioned at the very outskirts of the Quarters. I look once again over my shoulder. I’m alone. I can hear voices somewhere, people in their homes perhaps, and bird calls all around. I step forward, following a cobbled path that’s mostly overgrown with grass and ivy. It must be an old path, one from even before District 12 came into existence, as it follows the border fence but also veers off beneath it, vanishing beneath thick grass.

I do as Madge said, and follow the fence. I spot a figure in the distance, and squint. _A grey shawl._

I panic, then, perhaps for no reason. How do I approach her? Do I hang back and call her name, or simply walk until we meet? I debate for a moment, and then decide to walk on, figuring that lingering in the bushes isn’t the smartest idea with a young woman who is supposed to be ill in bed, not visiting her family.

I walk on, and she spots me soon enough. She brings her hand up at first, pulling the shawl further down over her head, casting her face in full shadow, but once she realises who I am, she pulls it back a little.

“Peeta,” she says, slightly breathless. “What are you doing here?”

She looks lively, rejuvenated. Her eyes hold a brightness that is hard to find when she’s in the mansion, and her lips curve into a smile. It makes me happy to see her like this, but angry to know that in order to be this way, she needs a disguise and a ruse.

“Madge told me you’d be coming through here. That I might bump into you if I did the same,” I explain.

Katniss raises an eyebrow.

“She did, did she?”

“Yes,” I reply, and feel my cheeks redden.

“I wonder why she’d suggest such a thing.”

I swallow. Madge told me Katniss was none the wiser to how I felt about her, but this – this seems a little flirtatious to me. I laugh nervously, rubbing the back of my neck.

“Madge seems to get awfully bored,” I say. “She seems to like to meddle.”

“She has good intentions.”

“I have no doubts that she does,” I say, and Katniss locks eyes with me for three long seconds, before looking away at the swaying trees beyond the fence. “Do you miss it?” I ask her, and her attention snaps back to me.

“Yes,” she replies. “But giving it up for Prim makes it okay.”

I furrow my brow. Katniss adjusts her grip on her shawl. The soft grey material makes her eyes stand out against her olive skin, and tendrils of hair escape by her temples, ruffled in the soft breeze.

“How is Prim?”

“She’s doing well,” Katniss says. Her eyes become soft, loving. “She’s doing well at school. She’s helping the Hawthornes. Even without mother she’s going to become a great healer. I know it.”

“Prim’s a natural.”

“And I am not. I can kill things but I can’t save them.” She bites her bottom lip. Her gaze becomes distant. I change the subject.

“How are the Hawthornes?”

“Well. Very well. Isaa–” She pauses, shaking her head. “ _The Mayor_ pays them more than enough to take Prim on.”

“I expect Prim eats much less than three boys ever did.”

“That is true,” she laughs slightly. “But Gale and Freesia are happy, Hazelle and the kids are happy. Everyone is doing just fine.”

“I’m glad,” I tell her, and she nods, slowly.

“How are you, Peeta?” she asks. “Madge told me you’d be painting him today.”

“I’ve had better days,” I shrug. “All I can say is that I don’t share his views. It makes conversation difficult at times.”

“You can always tell him to stop talking. That it messes up the painting.”

I smile. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Katniss kicks at the ground. Her shoes are impractical for the Seam but I can’t imagine her new Undersee wardrobe includes her usual leather boots. Her outfit is understated today; a long brown dress with long sleeves, the shawl, and black shoes with a buckle. She can easily blend into the crowd. I suppose she appreciates the fact. Being harassed by nosy people can’t be pleasant.

“How long are you going to be ‘ill’ for?” I ask her, and she smiles.

“As long as I can keep him away.”

“Have you used that excuse a lot?”

“More times than I thought he’d believe. I just say that it must be the food or the water. That I’m not used to it.”

“Are you?”

“No. But I’m much stronger than that.”

“He isn’t the smartest of men, is he?”

Her smile falls. “Smart in some ways. Not in others.”

My hand twitches at my side. I desperately want to reach out, to even just lay my hand on her arm as a sign of reassurance and care. But she isn’t Madge. I imagine she’d be more startled by it than calmed. So my hand remains limp at my side, and silence falls upon us.

“I should be getting on,” Katniss finally says.

“Okay.”

“When will you be back?”

“Tomorrow, probably.”

“Hopefully I’ll see you again.”

“If you’re feeling better,” I murmur, and she laughs a little, shaking her head.

“Goodbye, Peeta.”

“Goodbye, Katniss.”

And then she turns, and walks away, her footsteps as soft as the leaves rippling above my head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> saturnblushes on tumblr and pinterest


	6. naked bodies look like porcelain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in which peeta falls deeper under the spell

I continue to paint the Mayor over the next two days, using this time wisely in order to get down as much as I can before his trip. I’m thankful for my ability to draw from memory, knowing how long it would take if I had to ask the Mayor to stand for the portrait for weeks on end. I couldn’t bear it if I had to be in his presence for such an extended period of time.

Under his instruction, I work two days at the Justice Building, and three directly for him. I finish his portrait a week and a half later after hours upon hours spent adding the details that really bring paintings together, like a soft yellow to reflect where light is hitting the Mayor’s forehead, or an array of blues on the details of his suit. Much of this time is spent alone; when I don’t need him, Mayor Undersee is often in his office having what Madge describes as _tense conversations with Peacekeepers and officials from other districts_. Madge and Katniss are elsewhere, and I don’t dare ask for their whereabouts.

I’m glad that I’m not always stuck in the same room with the subject of my painting, but being left there for hours upon end with only the Mayor’s face to keep me company is isolating. It’s then that I can see how quiet the mansion is, how there is an odd, suffocating pressure in the air, as if the building is underwater. When my hands tire and my fingers cramp, I step away for a moment, flexing my limbs and standing by the window, watching the trees and the flowers and the clouds smearing across the wide expanse of the sky.

The day I declare the painting complete, I feel as if I could jump for joy. Tullia has bought me tea on a tray, and when she makes to leave, I ask her what she thinks of the portrait. She stands alongside me, several feet back from the canvas, and stares for a long moment before looking up at me.

She nods, and offers a smile.

“Is it good?” I ask, and she nods again, patting my arm. “Will he like it?”

Tullia exhales, raising an eyebrow. She fishes a notepad and pen from her pocket and scribbles down her response.

> _He will like it very much. He did not like the other. He thought he looked ugly in it._

I look over at the portrait, at the way I’ve truthfully depicted the Mayor, thinning hair and all.

“Thank God I didn’t do the same,” I say wryly, and Tullia covers her mouth and laughs, putting her notepad back into her pocket. She leaves, and I eye the painting a little longer, checking that the colours look correct, that the perspective is not skewed, that the details tie seamlessly into the rest of the image. When I was younger, I used to have trouble with ensuring that people were in proportion, and they’d end up with large, grotesque hands or noses. I’m glad that this is not the case here, that his bulbous nose is actually true to life.

Mayor Undersee is pleased with the painting when I present it to him.

“Peeta, you are quite excellent, young man.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“I’ve wanted a new portrait for some time and I know I made the right choice with you.” He walks forward, bending slightly at the waist to come closer to the canvas. “It’s so lifelike.”

“I’m glad you approve, sir.”

He shakes my hand, virtually crushing my fingers in his meaty grip, and I depart a short while later, alone as I walk up the driveway towards the gates. I glance back over my shoulder, half-hoping to see Katniss or Madge stood at a window, but I see nothing but dark panes of glass, and the house receding backwards, a grey block against the green of the trees and a sky painted gold by the setting sun.

…

The day the Mayor leaves, I’m in the Justice Building, filing paperwork. It’s a beautiful sunny day, birds singing and the sky stretching clear and blue into the horizon. I watch his car passing through the Quarters, past the Justice Building, and onward to the station, and breathe a sigh of relief. It’s like a weight has been lifted from my chest. I can’t imagine how good it feels for Katniss and Madge to be free of him.

I work at the bakery on Saturday, helping Rye and Damson. I have three wedding cakes to make, and spend hours in the kitchen, doing just that. It’s nice work and the level of concentration required for the task means I’m not left with just my thoughts. I haven’t seen Madge or Katniss for a while now, and whenever I ventured to ask the Mayor about their whereabouts, he said that Katniss was still ill, his tone dismissive, and that his daughter was looking after her. He seems none the wiser to what is going on, but that doesn’t fill me with much relief. I just worry, instead, about the risk the two of them are undertaking.

I think of Katniss and our short, hidden conversation, and can’t help but smile.

“What’s got you all happy?” Damson asks, blowing a strand of hair from her forehead as she carries in a stack of trays needing to be cleaned. She leans closer to me and grins. “Or should I say _who_?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, playing dumb, spinning one of the cakes to check the layer of fondant for inconsistencies.

“People know you’re going to the Mayor’s house,” she presses.

“He asked me to paint portraits,” I explain, shooting her a look. “He saw some of the work I hung up in my office at the Justice Building and he asked me to paint his family.”

Damson raises her eyebrows. “Rye said you were good, but I didn’t know you were _that_ good.”

“Well,” I laugh. “We’ll see how these turn out first. I’ve never professionally painted anyone before.”

“Don’t sell yourself short,” Damson scolds. “The Mayor must have had faith in you.”

“I guess.”

“How is it, then?” she asks, sitting down beside me and rolling her ankles after being on her feet all morning. “What’s the mansion like? What is Madge like up close? Do they have Avoxes from the Capitol?” She gasps, her eyes widening. “You must have seen Katniss Everdeen! How is she? How are you, being around her all the–”

“Shouldn’t you be helping Rye?” I cut her off, and she rolls her eyes.

“He’ll be fine. And don’t change the subject.”

“The mansion is big. Empty. Madge is a good friend. Yes they do have Avoxes. And Katniss is fine, as am I.”

Damson scowls at my answer, but I shrug, reaching for a knife to remove some excess icing. The tip of the blade slices through with ease, cutting through to make the cake look perfect. Damson snatches the leftover fondant and shoves it in her mouth, eyeing me with suspicion.

“I don’t like you keeping secrets,” she says, and I just roll my eyes. I don’t like keeping secrets either, but I don’t feel comfortable to be talking about Madge and Katniss behind their backs. It would feel like I was desecrating something, the truth of Madge’s life as an Undersee, and the tenuous relationship – if that word is even appropriate – between myself and Katniss, who is, no doubt, the talk of the town already. I don’t need to add fuel to the fire.

…

The following day, I’m headed to the mansion for the first time since the Mayor left for District 6. It’s a quiet and bright out, and everything feels lighter and brighter as I walk alongside my Peacekeeper escort. I don’t even mind that they are silent or that I can feel their eyes on me as I walk up the driveway to the mansion. Madge is out on the front lawn when I arrive, pruning a rosebush.

“They look Capitol-grown,” I comment in greeting, and she snorts, hacking at a stem with a pair of shears.

“Why’d you think I’m trying to kill them?” she asks, sighing and sitting back on her heels. “I was wondering when you’d get here.”

I check my watch. “I’m not late, am I?”

“Not at all. I just supposed you’d run here with a spring in your step given that my father is out of the district.”

“Are you predisposed to sarcasm?” I retort, and she laughs, standing and brushing dirt from her skirts.

“Come on, Katniss said she’d make us some snacks,” she says, heading inside out of the sunlight. I follow her into the foyer, and she sighs.

“You know he removed my mother’s portrait the other night? I found it and hid it in my room. He’s acting like she never existed. He might have pretended she didn’t for the last years of her life, but she was my mother. He seems to forget that.”

“I’m sorry, Madge,” I say, and she presses her lips together, eyes narrowing slightly.

“There’s nothing you can do, Peeta,” she says. “This is for me to figure out.”

In the kitchen, Katniss is preparing a tray of snacks. They’re decidedly less fancy than the food I’ve seen so far at the mansion, but that by no measure means it’s bad. It’s better. Hearty. Homely. It screams District 12.

“Hello, Peeta,” she greets, stirring something in a pot on the stove. “Back again?”

“Couldn’t stay away,” I shrug in response, and I see her mouth flicker into a smile.

Our conversation last week left me feeling hopeful that our friendship will progress beyond what it was before she married the Mayor. Given the stress placed upon it by her husband’s presence, I’m relieved that he’s going to be gone for the time being. His absence will allow for the time and space needed for genuine conversation. It’ll be like it was before, when I visited Madge and sat with her and Katniss in the glasshouse.

“I don’t blame you for wanting to be here,” Katniss says. “This place is an oasis, is it not?”

I stand with my hands behind my back, just watching her graceful movements. She turns off the stove and pours whatever is in the pot into a carafe. “That’s one way to describe it.”

At Madge’s prompting, we sit awhile, drinking what turns out to be Katniss’ own homemade tea, and eating spiced biscuits.

“I used to make them when we had enough tesserae left over,” she shrugs when Madge and I compliment her. “They’re a very simple recipe.”

With snacks eaten and conversation made, we head into another part of the mansion that I haven’t yet seen. Most of the rooms are almost empty, others filled with furniture covered in dustsheets. We pass through them all, these still, untouched spaces, Madge and Katniss’ skirts swishing in the quiet, my boots thumping against the wooden floors.

We enter another room at the end of the house. Katniss goes to the window and looks out. The space is similar to the one I painted the Mayor in, just a little smaller, and with pale green paint on the walls instead of dark panelling, and golden moulding foaming out from where the ceiling and walls meet. My easel has already been moved here, ready for me to work on, and an ornate chaise sits in the middle, similar to the one from a few weeks ago. 

My expression must be telling, because Madge smiles.

“It’s a beautiful house, isn’t it?” she murmurs. I nod in awe, admiring the views from the windows. “It was built to echo an ancient style of architecture from long before the Dark Days. It was very popular with the people back then. I’ve read all about it in the library.”

“You have a library?” I ask. Books, aside from the ones permitted by the Capitol, are highly regulated. It’s a treasonous offence to have banned books in your possession, though there’s still a strong black market trade for them, stemming straight from District 7's paper mills. The only ones I’ve ever had are Capitol textbooks at school, and the odd one bought for me from the Hob, or from others who prefer to keep their names hush-hush. I can’t even imagine having so many books that you’d need a library.

“An entire room,” Madge says. “You’ll have to go see it. Katniss spends hours in there.”

“Is it not… _illegal_?” I lower my voice.

“We have permits,” Madge replies, and the look on her face indicates that these permits don’t cover every novel they have, and that the fact needs to remain unsaid.

A moment of silence passes, and then Madge claps her hands. “You must want to be getting on with Katniss’ portrait,” she says. “We’ll leave you to get set up, and I’ll help Katniss into her dress.”

From her position by the window, Katniss turns her head and approaches.

“We’ll be right back,” she says softly, and I nod, feeling drawn to her as she glides past me, her footsteps almost silent on the smooth wooden floors.

I set up my workspace, spreading out a sheet to protect the floors, securing the canvas, and organising my tools, and have only just finished when the door creaks open again. I turn, and watch as Katniss steps through into the room.

I feel my mouth drop open and can’t find it in me to close it and stop staring at her.

When Madge said _dress_ , she really should have said _gown._ It’s like something from the Capitol, like nothing I’ve ever seen before but on television, when Victors are interviewed after winning the Games.

The dress is a shiny satin, a burnt, golden orange colour that sets Katniss’ skin alight, turns her dark hair a gleaming midnight black, and brings a fire to her eyes that I haven’t seen for some time. It cascades in sheets of silky fabric from her hips to the floor, rippling as she moves. The bodice looks tight and uncomfortable, but accentuates her shape in a way her leather jacket never did. The sleeves tumble in pleats over her shoulders, baring her neck and collarbones. Her hair is tied up in a soft, braided updo, with tendrils escaping by her temples. Small white flowers stand out against her raven locks, almost forming a crown upon her head.

Madge helps her through the doorway, picking up the back of her skirts. She stumbles slightly, struggling with so much material, but she truly has taken my breath away.

“Wow,” I breathe, and she looks up at her me and smiles. I feel my cheeks redden. “Katniss—you look… I’ve never…”

“Doesn’t she look beautiful?” Madge asks, speaking when I am unable to. I nod, lost for words.

Katniss doesn’t seem to be self-conscious, which I find slightly surprising. She herself said of her irritation when it came to dresses, but now, in this, she is graceful and powerful and completely commands the room. She is a flame, and I am a moth in the darkness. She is a beacon, and I am a weary traveller.

“Only Victors dress like this,” she says, standing in front of me. Now I can see the makeup she wears. It is minimal, but makes her skin glow, her cheeks blush, and her eyes penetrate straight to my soul.

“You outshine them all,” I tell her, and again, she smiles. There’s something in her expression… a slight smirk, a hint of satisfaction. It’s intoxicating.

She offers me her hand and I take it, and with Madge’s assistance, we guide Katniss to the sofa and help her sit down. Madge arranges her skirts under my watchful eye, and then brings in a bundle of wildflowers.

“From the gardens,” she explains. Katniss takes them, holding them in her lap, and its then that I see that this is no ordinary bouquet. I see flowers I cannot name, see sprigs of things I’ve never seen the florist sell, and then, amid the leaves and petals, are three arrows.

They appear to be ornamental, smaller and daintier than what I imagine Katniss would actually use, and almost blend into the bouquet, but the fact that they are there, tied up with ribbon, is to me a sign of rebellion. Katniss is not just the wife of the Mayor. The girl from the woods is still there.

Madge and I stand back, and Katniss remains seated.

“Perfect,” I murmur, and Madge smiles at me.

“She looks like royalty,” she says, before raising her voice so Katniss can hear. “Are you comfortable, Katniss? You’ll have to sit for a few hours.”

“I’m quite alright,” she replies, lifting her chin slightly.

And then, I begin to sketch. Madge sits nearby, ready to readjust Katniss’ skirts or hair if need be, and to offer drinks and snacks. I build the image slowly, wanting to capture everything I see in front of me. The light is perfect, shining softly through the windows. Katniss is a girl on fire, her stare reducing me to ashes where I stand.

The three of us exchange easy conversation, and before long, I have filled the canvas. Madge assures both me and Katniss that the portrait looks good, though I feel inadequate all of a sudden, as if I am not capable of translating such beauty onto the page. To place paint upon the canvas would make her image real, would make her double.

There’s a knock at the door, and Madge calls out for whoever it is to come in. Tullia appears, dressed much more casually than I’ve ever seen her before, her hair tied up in a scarf.

She signs something and Madge sit her cup of tea down on the tray.

“Tullia needs help with the study,” she says, standing. “I’ll be right back.”

“Are you sure?” Katniss asks, brow furrowed in concern.

“Yes, it’s no problem,” Madge says. She smiles. “It’ll give you two a moment to yourselves.”

And then she’s gone, her shoes snapping against the floor, the door slipping shut. I look at Katniss. She looks at me. I can feel my heart thundering in my chest.

How could Madge say such a thing? She knows how I feel about Katniss, and I’ve asked her not to notify her of the fact, fearful of creating conflict in an already precarious situation. My face feels like it’s on fire, and for a few minutes, I hide behind the canvas, trying to figure out what to say or do, how to apologise, how to make Katniss realise that I don’t want anything from her. I only want her to be safe and as happy—that I would do anything to give her that.

Finally, I peer around the edge of the canvas. Katniss doesn’t seem fazed. She looks up instead, and meets my gaze, maintaining eye contact for a few dizzying seconds, and smiles again, before looking away to adjust her skirt, smoothing her palm over the material.

I take a breath to calm myself, to collect my thoughts, and open my mouth to speak. But when I look at Katniss, I find that she’s already looking at me, with that same expression on her face. I can’t think of the word to describe it; something both satisfied and playful, as if she has what she wants and now knows to toy with it.

She speaks first, and I’m surprised. I’m usually the one to begin a conversation when it comes to just the two of us.

“She didn’t mean anything by it, Peeta,” she says, her voice soft. “It’s okay.”

I feel my chest tighten. “I just… you know Madge.”

She smiles. “I do.”

“I don’t want you to feel… uncomfortable. Considering I’m employed by your husband and all. It puts me in a rather strange position.”

She considers my words. “Why would it?”

I blink, confused. She elaborates.

“Why would you being here put you in a strange position?”

I feel my heart leap into my throat. _Idiot!_ I fumble to find an answer. “We—you—we were at school together. Trading, and… I don’t want–” I stop, knowing that I’m making a fool of myself. “I don’t want you to be embarrassed, because someone from your old life is here, intruding. I only want you to be safe.”

Her expression doesn’t change, and a moment of silence passes. I clear my throat, nervous that I’ve offended her.

“I see,” she eventually says, looking away.

I go back to sketching, trying to concentrate. I thought I’d be able to keep my head on straight, knowing that she was a married woman, one I could never have, but instead, I’ve only fallen deeper under her spell, and made myself look stupid in the process.

Silence fills the room. I begin wonder when Madge will come back, knowing that she’d be able to diffuse the tension.

“I suppose you want to know how I got here,” Katniss says instead.

“How do you mean?”

“I might not leave the mansion grounds very often, but I know what people are like. How they gossip, how they like to make up stories about people they barely know.”

“I don’t believe the gossip,” I mumble.

“Neither do I. But we all listen,” she says.

“I… I know that your mother died,” I say, and her expression falters. “I want to say that I’m sorry, Katniss. I don’t believe I’ve said anything about the matter, but she was a wonderful woman.”

“A wonderful healer, yes,” she says quietly. She looks down at her skirts. “I didn’t expect she would pass so soon.”

“It wasn’t long after Madge’s mother, was it?”

“A few weeks after,” she affirms. “Fever.”

“Madge said the two of them were good friends.”

“They were. That was a long time ago, before all this.” She gestures loosely. I imagine for a moment Mrs Everdeen and the original Mrs Undersee as young people like us, young people with hopes and dreams. What place did the Mayor have in all of that?

She looks up. There’s a sadness in her eyes that dampens her earlier look of contentment.

“Mrs Undersee,” she begins, before shaking her head. “Madge’s mother, I mean. She was ill for a long time. She had medication from the Capitol to help her with it all but it wasn’t something that could be cured, only something that could be slowed. She always knew it would be what would kill her, it was only a matter of how long.

“Madge—I don’t know how much she told you—she looked after her a lot. My mother said that whatever it was she had, it affected her brain. There was little anyone could do. Isaac called my mother in to help in the months before she passed. There was no use getting doctors from the Capitol. They always said the same thing.

“At the time, Prim was sick. She had some kind of flu and had to stay home to rest. The weather was so bad that it would’ve been dangerous for her to come. She’d accompanied my mother for almost every single visit and mother still needed an assistant so I went to the mansion. I just held bags and stuff. I’m no healer.”

Katniss’s brow furrows as she thinks back. I’m standing beside the easel now, painting forgotten but for the brush grasped loosely by my fingers.

“I guess… I don’t know. He would just stand there by his wife’s bed and watch me very closely. At the time I didn’t think much of it. I was just focused on helping my mother and nothing else. I thought perhaps he was concerned that I wasn’t a healer.

“A few days before she died he invited us all over to supper to thank us. It was strange. I didn’t understand why he was doing it, since my mother couldn’t actually do anything for his wife. He kept sending us supplies. Bread. Milk. Money. I didn’t want to say anything because we needed it but I knew it was a little odd. I thought that maybe Madge asked him to do it.

“Then, my mother died. And he still sent us things. I almost went to him to ask him to stop because the debt was getting too big for me to ever be able to repay. But he came to our house one night… it was just me and Prim. He offered me a good life for Prim if I became his wife.” She plucks a petal from one of the flowers in her bouquet and it flutters to her feet. I’m frozen in place, listening to her story.

“Prim was so sick. The winter had been so harsh and I knew the Peacekeepers would send her to the orphanage. I couldn’t pay for my mother’s funeral or anything else and I didn’t know what else to do.” Her voice is now almost a whisper. “He told me that if I agreed to marry him, I’d never have to worry about Peacekeepers ever again, that Prim would be looked after.” She looks up at me, eyes shining. “Who would I be to deny her that?”

She purses her lips, and then exhales shakily. I stare at her, trying to process everything. “You must think I am disgusting. But I suppose the truth is better than what people in town have been saying. That I’m a whore, that I sold myself to him.” She trails off. Her shoulders turn in a little. “I suppose the truth and the rumours aren’t too different, really.”

“No, Katniss, no,” I say, shaking my head. “You’re none of those things. You’re a survivor, and you do whatever it takes to protect your sister. No one can ever judge you for that. No one. I never would.”

She sighs. “How can you believe that, Peeta?” she asks. I feel pinned in place by her stare and by her words.

“I don’t need you to prove anything to me—” I stutter.

“Why? How can you possibly look at me and listen to what people having being saying and not come to the conclusion that I’m selfish and stubborn and no better than anyone else?”

I’m stunned by the vitriol in her voice, and at how it’s directed so singularly inwards. My mouth opens and closes as I try to bring the right words to my lips. Katniss’s expression tightens as she waits.

Finally, I say, “I know that we’re not exactly friends, not yet, perhaps, but I feel like I know enough about you that I know what other people say is wrong. I know you’re a survivor. It’s written all over you, Katniss. You should never doubt that I’d think otherwise.”

There’s a moment of silence, and then, “We’re not friends?”

The hurt is obvious, and I’m immediately mortified. Out of everything I said, I didn’t think she’d focus in on that. But again, just being in her presence has rendered me incapable of properly conveying what I want to say. How can I tell her that we’re friends but in a fragile, permeable sense? How do I tell her that I think she’s a good person and that to me she is the sun and the moon and the stars?

I take a breath. “I don’t quite know where I stand,” I murmur. “Your _husband_ employs me, and we never really talked until I started coming here to paint you, and…” I trail off, looking down at my hands. “I don’t want to put you in a difficult position.”

I lift my head when Katniss stands. Her eyes are welling with tears, something I’ve never before seen. Despite everything she’s been through, I have never once witnessed her shed a tear. And now she is, because of me.

“Katniss, I’m sorry,” I say, desperate, stepping forward as she drops the bouquet onto the couch cushion, picks up her skirts, and walks past me. She dodges my outstretched hand and I follow her to the door, daring to place my hand on her elbow in an attempt to stop her from leaving. She shakes herself free.

“I need to be alone,” she says, not meeting my eyes.

“Katniss,” I say. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

She bites her lip, and nods. “I know you didn’t.”

I’m helpless, unable to figure out what I can say or do to tell her that I want to help her if I can and if she’ll allow it. But it appears that I’ve only managed to make things worse.

I open the door wide enough to let her through with her gown. She stops and looks at me. “None of this is your fault,” she whispers, and then she’s hurrying away through the empty, still rooms, leaving me alone in the doorway.

I pace back and forth by the easel, and whirl around when ten minutes later, the door opens. Madge appears, looking a little agitated.

“What happened?” she asks me, eyes wide. “Katniss was in tears.”

“She told me about how she came to marry the Mayor… and then she asked me if I believed the rumours about her and I promised I didn’t—I don’t, you know that,” I grimace, feeling my chest tighten. “I tried to convince her that I didn’t think she was anything like what people in town have been saying and then I said that we weren’t exactly _friends_ because I don’t want to scare her off and she excused herself. I didn’t mean to upset her, Madge. You have to tell her that wounding her is the last thing I want to do.”

“She already knows that,” Madge replies, her brow furrowed.

“I didn’t think she’d care,” I say. “I thought she knew that before all this we were only really acquaintances.”

Madge lays her hand on my arm. “You were. But things have changed since then.”

“I didn’t want this to happen.”

“ _I know,_ ” Madge says firmly. “Katniss knows you’re not the malicious type. Everyone knows that, Peeta.”

“I didn’t think I’d be able to make her so upset.”

Madge purses her lips thoughtfully, clearly deliberating over something. She moves her hand from my arm to my hand, and squeezes. “Katniss isn’t the same girl who traded with you. Not anymore.”

“What are you talking about?” I ask, shaking my head. I feel like something is being kept from me, that I’m on the outside looking in.

“You should go. I’ll talk to her and let you know when to come back.”

I nod, though I feel like I’ve caused a chasm to form between myself and whatever I thought was being built between Katniss and I. All the little fragments built from years of shy, uncertain conversations were finally starting to come together, and now I’ve reversed all that progress, all with a few misplaced words.

I cover the painting and Madge escorts me to the door. I walk home feeling like a new weight has been placed on my shoulders, and this feeling stains everything I see. When I finally fall asleep in the early hours of the next morning, I dream of nothingness, and wake feeling restless and empty.

I head to the Justice Building. I’m not expected there today, given that I was supposed to remain at the mansion to paint, but I know that if I go to the bakery instead, I’ll be too distracted to function, and that if I remain at my apartment, I’ll only drive myself up the wall.

For once, the monotony of my office is a blessing. I file, I type, I check endless documents, and try my hardest to keep my mind from wandering.

Shortly after midday, there’s a knock at my door. I check my schedule; I wasn’t expecting anyone. I call out for whoever it is to come in, and the door creaks open.

It’s Gale Hawthorne, ducking his head as he passes through the doorway, a dark, slender figure entering my office like a shadow. I stand. He closes the door, steps forward, his dust-covered boots thudding on the floorboards, and shakes my outstretched hand. I’m fully aware of the relative softness of my own, and the calloused feel of his. Coal dust is sealed into his skin like a tattoo.

“The lady at the desk told me to go straight up,” he explains, and I nod.

“I wasn’t expecting anyone until four,” I say as he takes a seat.

“I weren’t planning on coming. Boss told me to get a trade register.”

“Of course,” I say. “Do you have the type number?”

Gale fishes a piece of roughly-folded paper from the pocket of his heavy jacket and hands it to me. I unfold it, finding a number scrawled there amid the creases. I search on the computer for the correct document to retrieve.

All the while, Gale sits in silence, drumming his fingers against the arms of his chair, his jaw tense, his eyes shifting around the room. I try to ignore his fidgeting, since his restlessness is making me feel uneasy as well. After a minute or two, I begin to assume that he wants no form of conversation, that to him, this is no different to a trade.

And then he clears his throat, sitting up slightly, and leaning forward a fraction.

“People have been seein' you go to the Undersee’s place,” he says, voice low and rough. I stop typing, and glance at him. His grey eyes bore into me. He barely waits three seconds before blurting out:

“Are you courting Madge?”

My eyes widen. “What? No. Of course not.”

“It’s none of my business if you are, I just thought that since people said you’re going to the mansion that you’d have seen Catnip and I ain’t seen her for a while now and don’t know how she’s doing.”

He seems almost embarrassed to be saying these words, scrubbing his jaw with his hand and averting his gaze to the desk. I blink, surprised.

“I’ve seen her,” I respond, and his brows knit together. “Mayor Undersee asked me to paint portraits of him, Madge, and Katniss. That’s why I’m there.”

“Oh,” Gale says. “Okay. Well. If you could—if you could just look out for her? I know you can’t do much but we’d all be real appreciative if you could just make sure she’s alright. She needs as many people as possible on her side right now.”

“That’s no problem at all,” I tell him, because I’ve been doing the exact same thing all this time, making sure she’s okay, that she and Madge are alright. I might have stuck my foot into my mouth yesterday, but Hawthorne doesn’t need to know that.

“You haven’t seen her?” I ask after a few seconds, grabbing the trade register from the electronic printing machine sat in the corner of the room. It hums quietly, producing perfect copies of what I have on screen.

“No,” he says, his expression darkening. “She was at my mother’s place a little while back but I was in the mines.”

“Ah.”

“Do you have a pen I can use?” he asks. I hand one to him and he scribbles something down on a scrap of paper. “When you see her, give her this. Let her know we’re thinking of her.”

He folds the note up and slides it across. I nod, promising to do so, but not telling him that the last time Katniss and I spoke resulted in her leaving the room in tears.

Gale takes the trade register and then thanks me, looking and sounding as uncomfortable as I am, and ducks back out of my office.

I eye the note he’s left behind. I ache to read it, to find out what he wants to tell her, but I know it’s not my place and force myself to simply put it in my pocket. I try to forget about it. With Katniss’ distress about people gossiping about her and now with Gale’s comments about people spotting me going to the mansion—not that I was hiding the fact and not that I thought I would need to—I suddenly feel hyperaware of those around me, about what they’re saying behind closed doors.

Growing up in the Quarters, I was exposed to the gossip-fuelled lives of the men and women around me from birth, really. I’ve witnessed my mother whispering over the register with customers, customers whispering with each other in the streets, and seen how destructive rumours can be. I’ve always tried to take these things with a grain of salt, but I’ve never been the topic of the town’s gossip, at least not knowingly.

It’s uncomfortable to know that now I am. And if just this is enough to make me feel that way, I can’t even imagine how Katniss and her family have felt over these past few months, nor how Madge has felt all her life.

This feeling is only exacerbated the next day, when, once I’ve arrived at the Justice Building, I have to deny a business application to the grocer and am met with his ire.

“The reason I _have_ a debt is because the train was blocked. I didn’t have deliveries! I _had_ to take out a loan!”

“I understand that, sir, but–”

“How am I supposed to repay my debt when I can’t apply for more supplies? If I can’t sell to my customers, I can’t repay the money I owe.”

I grimace, watching his face grow whiter and whiter. Debt, especially to the Capitol, is something that can get you in big trouble in the districts. I’ve seen people have their businesses shut down, their possessions sold off, and their children taken from them when their debts get too big. The bakery has fallen on hard times before as well, and I’ve seen how much anxiety it causes.

“I’m sorry, Mr Clements. But there’s nothing I can do.”

He exhales. “Peeta, you know me. I’m an honest man. Surely there’s a number you can call? _Someone_ you can talk to? I’m in a real bind here and I need you to help.”

My eyes land on the large portrait of President Snow hanging on the wall opposite.

“All I can suggest is that you reorganise your accounts. Start paying whatever you can.” I show him the numbers belonging to his business. He looks confused, and I don’t blame him. I was the exact same way when I arrived here, under the instruction of Flattree. “You can see that this is the deficit, _this_ is the outstanding amount. I’m not meant to give you advice like this. I’m sorry.”

He closes his eyes for a brief moment, and then, in a tone that borders on threatening, says, “I must ask you, Mr Mellark, where your loyalties lie.”

“Excuse me?”

“Are you one of us—one of the people who raised you, one of _your_ people—or one of _them_?”

“Sir, what are you insinuating?”

“You’re awfully friendly with the Mayor now, are you not? His ties to the Capitol must be extremely attractive, and once you’ve married his daughter, you’ll have as much power as you want. If that is your goal, Mr Mellark, you should be ashamed.”

I square my shoulders. “There is no _me versus you_ , Mr Clements. This is not a personal affront against you. It is simply out my hands. I have to deny your application.”

I reach for the ink stamp sat on my desk and seal it against the paper. DENIED it reads out, in thick, black letters. I slide it back to him.

“You are welcome to discuss your accounts with another clerk. But this is not a matter of sides. I am just doing my job.”

Mr Clements snatches up the application, standing and fixing me with a glare.

“This will not gain you any friends. It will only cause problems for you and your family,” he snaps, before storming from the room. I watch him go. The door slams shut.

I can’t help but think that he’s not just talking about his denied application.

…

I answer my door to a Peacekeeper the next morning, and immediately know that I’m to come back to the mansion. I hurry to dress appropriately, to run a comb through my hair and throw my bag over my shoulder, before joining the awaiting keeper outside.

I’m anxious as I walk up the gravel driveway. It’s a hot day, and sweat prickles at the point where the collar of my shirt meets my skin, which does nothing to ease my nerves. After how everything was left the last time I was here, with Katniss in tears and with me a clumsy mess, unable to speak without upsetting her, I half-feared that I’d never be invited back.

To my disappointment but not to my surprise, Katniss isn’t there when I arrive. Stillman greets me at the door and leads me through the silent house to the same room from last time, where I find Madge.

“She’s ill,” she explains. I didn’t even have to ask. Though, Madge knows me. Better than I often realise. Of course she’d know. Of course she’d understand.

“Oh,” I say, setting down my bag beside an awaiting easel. “I see.”

“It’s the truth,” she asserts. “She’s been complaining of headaches. I’ve told her to rest.”

My brow creases. “No doubt I had some hand in that.”

Madge shakes her head, her golden curls washing over her shoulders. She’s dressed in a rich navy blue gown that billows out at her hips and brushes against the floor. It makes her skin look like ivory, her eyes as sharp as ice.

“You aren’t the cause.”

“It’s my fault.”

“I’ve talked to her. She was worried that you’d taken the rumours in town to heart. She didn’t want you to believe any of it.”

“I never did–”

“She didn’t know that, though,” Madge purses her lips. “Katniss has a thick skin, but she’s still human. She still hurts. I think she found talking to you cathartic, even though it involved dredging up the past.”

“And then I managed to mess everything up. I didn’t mean what I said. I just didn’t know how to say it without making her uncomfortable.”

“She said you told her you weren’t friends.”

I stutter out a few sounds. “I didn’t think she wanted that. Before all _this_ —” I gesture around the room. “—we only ever spoke when we traded. And even then she never seemed particularly interested in me and I didn’t want to make her feel uncomfortable just coming to the bakery and now I didn’t want to overstep and—”

Madge cuts me off. “Peeta,” she says softly. “It’s alright. I promise.”

I grimace. “Is it, though? For her to actually need rest… that isn’t like Katniss Everdeen.”

Madge looks troubled. “Are you the same person you were six months ago? We’ve all changed, Katniss especially. She's willing to do what she has to to survive.”

“I want to help,” I say. “I just don’t know how.”

I think of Gale’s words, and of his note. I pat my pocket and retrieve it, passing it to Madge.

“What’s this?”

“From Gale Hawthorne. He came to visit me yesterday. At the Justice Building. He said it was for a mining register but… I think that was just a front. He said he’d heard the rumours about me coming here.”

“There are rumours about you too?”

“People think I’m courting you.”

Madge laughs in disbelief. “The things the people in this district come up with.”

“He also said he hadn’t seen Katniss for a while. He asked me to look out for her, and for me to pass her his note.”

Madge thumbs the grey paper thoughtfully.

“I’ll make sure he gets it,” she promises.

With Katniss elsewhere, and with Madge all dressed up and ready, I begin working on her portrait. We chat about the past few days as I sketch. When we break for tea and sandwiches brought in on a tray by Stillman, I tell her about Mr Clements and his warning that the loyalty I’m supposed to have towards my fellow Merchants is not something to throw away just because I apparently plan on marrying into the Undersee family.

“He accused me of having ulterior motives. That I want to rise above everyone else.”

Madge nods in understanding. “My father’s father was the Mayor too. My mother was an only child, and when she married into the family, she left her own parents without an heir to the business. People don’t like it when others make big leaps into power like that, especially if it means leaving people behind.”

I shake my head. “Everyone knows that if I could, I would’ve taken up the bakery in a heartbeat. Do I really seem like someone who’d marry for money or power?”

Madge lifts an eyebrow. “Not in a million years, Peeta.” She sighs. “But with what’s happening in the Capitol… not to mention the tensions in Eight and Eleven and the train delays—I’m not surprised people are getting angry.” Then she scoffs. “As if we’d ever marry.”

I roll my eyes. “You’re like a sister, Madge. It’d be gross.”

Madge smiles, but it quickly fades. I pick up on her change of mood.

“What is it?”

“My father is returning in soon.” Her words, like their subject, are a grey cloud, rolling in and promising thunder. My mood sours. Though I’d never quite forgot about the Mayor’s imminent return, I’d also hoped that he’d never set foot in District 12 ever again.

“From District 6?”

“Yes. I’m worried about what it’ll do to Katniss.”

“Why is now different?”

“He’s always in a foul mood when he comes back, and things are harder now than ever before. I don’t want Katniss to have to suffer like my mother did. She bore the brunt of his frustration, even when she was ill.”

My stomach churns. I sink a paintbrush into a pot of water. “Katniss will be able to handle him. I’m sure she will. She’s strong.”

Madge nods, her attention focused somewhere in the distance.

“So was my mother," she says, and her implication sinks low in my chest.

…

A few days later, I receive a note from Madge, delivered by a Peacekeeper to my door. It’s still sealed, the wax without a crack.

> _Peeta-_
> 
> _You’re welcome to return tomorrow._
> 
> _\- M._

When I arrive at the mansion, Madge greets me on the front lawn, and promises that she will not interfere. I think she feels a little guilty, though I don’t blame her for what happened. She was just teasing. I’m responsible for making a mess of things.

“I’ll be out here with Stillman,” she says, wiping her brow and looking over at Stillman, who stands by the hedgerow with a rake and a wheelbarrow. “Katniss knows to call for Tullia if she needs anything.”

I wring my hands. Madge smiles sympathetically at me.

“Don’t worry. Just talk to her. And keep your head on straight.”

She calls for Tullia and as I follow the silent woman, I try to calm my racing heart. Am I overreacting? Am I worrying too much? I suppose some would agree that I am, but they don’t know how involved I am in this, how deeply it pains me to know I’ve offended or hurt Katniss. Ultimately, it did nothing but cause pain. I know I’ll have to be forthright from now on. If Katniss wants me as a friend, I need to ensure that she knows that I certainly want to be that for her, apologise for what I said, make good on my promise to Gale.

At the door, Tullia stops and faces me. She pulls out her notepad and scribbles a message.

> _You’re overthinking it all._

I grimace.

“I know.”

Tullia places her hand on mine, and then nods. She twists the doorknob and pushes it open, gesturing for me to enter.

Katniss sits waiting for me. In the same seat, with the same gown, the same hairstyle. Her bouquet lays next to her, waiting. Her unfinished portrait stands beside the easel holding Madge’s own.

I look behind me, but the door is already closed. Tullia is gone. Katniss and I are alone.

She maintains eye contact as I approach. I feel like I’m a deer approaching a mountain lion, and don’t dare speak until she does.

“If you feel uncomfortable being alone with me, I can ask Tullia to come back,” she opens, chin lifted in assessment of me.

I exhale. “No. No. It’s okay.” I pause, setting down my bag. “I’m sorry, Katniss. Truly. I didn’t mean to upset you. I didn’t want to overstep. To make you uncomfortable.”

Katniss shakes her head. “I know. It’s okay, Peeta. I promise.”

I smile, so relieved to hear those words. “We are friends. I should’ve just said that when we spoke. There’s nothing wrong with us being friends.”

“I’m so glad you agree,” she says, smoothing out her skirts. “Now, come on. I don’t want to be sat here all day.”

I jump into action, and before long, I’m back into the rhythm of painting, and Katniss is back to pinning me in place with her eyes, both in real life and on the canvas.

“I guess I didn’t realise how much I relied on you and Madge,” she says a little while later, after I apologise again for what I said. “I wasn’t hurt by our conversation, not really. Things around here are just a lot to deal with sometimes. And to hear that I’d lost someone I’d come to see as an ally… it was more than a little unpleasant.”

 _Ally_. I roll the word around in my mind. _Ally, friend._ More adjectives for me to describe our relationship.

“I understand,” I say, mixing some soft yellow and a rich maroon on my palette. “It’s quite a change from the Seam.”

“It’s an entirely different world. Sometimes you can forget that you’re even in District 12.”

“Sometimes that’s a good thing.”

“Not when you have no one to be there with you,” she murmurs. Her far-off expression makes me think that she must be remembering back to simpler times, when her mother lived and the Mayor was a far-off memory and she could spend her time in the woods with Gale.

“How is it?” I ask. “Here, in the mansion?”

“I feel utterly useless. Sitting here all day—I have no purpose any more. Everything I did was for Prim. And now I don’t have to do any of that.”

“You’re her sister. There are things you can give her that aren’t a matter of life and death.”

She sighs. “Whenever I get to see her she’s always changed so much. She’s going to be taller than me. Prettier too. Her life… it’ll be so different from mine. Not that I regret being able to give that to her, but—”

“But perhaps you wish for something different,” I say. She nods.

“I suppose so, yes.”

I swipe some paint on the canvas, looking back and forth from Katniss to the portrait to perfect a shadow on her shoulder. “Well, maybe now you can look out for yourself. Do what you want just because you can.”

Katniss shrugs, dismissing the idea as something utterly impossible.

“What do you want to do with your life?” she asks me, and I raise my eyebrows.

“That’s a big question.”

“There’s always an answer.”

“I… I don’t know. I always thought I’d get the bakery. I don’t mind being a clerk. It’s a useful job. And Rye’s getting the hang of it.”

“But you’d prefer the bakery,” Katniss says, leaving no room for me to disagree. I laugh, nodding.

“Yes. Yes I would.”

“Perhaps whoever you marry will have a business you can marry into.”

“Perhaps.”

“You don’t want to get married?”

I look up at her surprised tone. She waits expectantly for my answer, and I fight the urge to hide behind the canvas.

“I do. But I have other things to think about right now.”

“You always seemed like the kind of guy who’d get married right out of graduation. Have some kids and grow old in the bakery,” she muses. “I liked that about you.”

“Sorry to disappoint,” I say, looking from the painting to the subject, and back again. “Things didn’t happen the way I hoped they might.”

I glance at her, narrowing my eyes, and she frowns.

“What is it?”

“I think I need you to tilt your head a little. To the left.”

She tries to do as I say, but don’t quite get what I mean. I put down my brush and palette, wipe my hands on my apron, and hesitantly approach. She watches me, drawing back a little. I stop.

“Do you—do you mind if I just,” I say quietly, reaching out a hesitant hand in her direction. She nods, lips parting. As I gently tilt her head with the tips of my fingers against the corner of her jaw. I’m fully aware that this is the closest we’ve ever been to one another.

Her skin is burning hot under my touch, soft and smooth. She looks up at me. We share a _moment_ of just a few seconds, but it’s enough to make me feel a little dizzy. My cheeks burn. She smiles. I retreat.

“Is that better?” she asks, and I nod.

“Yes. Perfect,” I say hoarsely, picking up my brush. I continue painting in silence for a few long minutes, desperately trying to compose myself.

Now she’s posing in just the right position, allowing me to ensure that her likeness is exact. It’s a difficult job, but ensuring that the model is in as close a position as when the first initial sketches were made means it’s a lot easier to work. And work I do, saying nothing, focusing on the way the paint lies and steadfastly repeating _get over yourself_ in my head.

It’s a hot day even in this cool room, so after a while, I pour us both a glass of water. I try to quell the electricity that shoots up my arm when our fingers brush, but to no avail. The feeling fills my chest and makes my heart sting. I take a moment to stand back from the painting and gather my bearings, sipping my water, when Katniss surprises me by saying, “I thought you liked me.”

I almost choke on my water. Her eyebrow quirks at my reaction, and I try to compose myself.

Like? _Like? What is that supposed to mean?_

“I do,” I stutter when it’s clear that she wants an answer. “Of course I like you, Katniss.”

“Of course?” she asks, and my mouth opens and closes. This feels… _different_. Like she’s testing me, forcing me to walk the plank just to see what I do. But she knows already that I’ll obey, but I don’t think she knows how far I’d go.

“Yes,” I say. “You’re my friend, remember?”

She smiles. I swallow, averting my gaze. _What is this?_

“Madge said you were worried I hated you.”

I curse Madge for a brief second.

“I was concerned. I didn’t want you to get the wrong idea.”

“The wrong idea being what?” she asks, her voice low, soft. I open my mouth to answer, and then close it again. If this is her game, I will turn the tables on her, place her under scrutiny.

“I’m sure you know what it is,” I tell her, and a look of surprise flits across her face before she smiles again.

“I thought the rumours were that you and Madge were _courting_ ,” she says, whispering the last word like it’s a terrible secret. I roll my eyes.

Katniss smiles. I smile uneasily back at her, unsure of where she’s going with this topic. “After all,” she adds. “A mother must give her blessings.”

I know it’s a joke, but it falls flat immediately. Her smile falters.

“I don’t want to marry her,” I say evenly.

“Why not?”

I pause, closing my eyes. How can I say this?

 _Because the woman I love is married to another man_.

“Madge and I are friends. _Just_ friends.”

“Friends can quickly become more.”

“Are you saying that from experience?”

She smiles, but it doesn’t really meet her eyes. I don’t get an answer. Katniss drops her bouquet and reaches down to pick it up, disrupting the way the fabric of her gown tumbles to the floor.

“Sorry,” she mumbles, when I come to rearrange the pleats for her.

“It’s okay,” I shrug, trying to move the expensive material as carefully as possible. I stand, and see that one of her sleeves is crooked, twisting awkwardly over her shoulder. I reach forward. Smooth it out. Try to ignore how close we are.

When I start to move away, attempting to break whatever it is that has suddenly filled the air between us, Katniss grabs my wrist. The sudden movement makes me trip over my own feet, and my other hand shoots out to stop myself from falling over completely, coming to rest on the top of the back of the ornate lounger she sits on.

“I’m sorry,” I say, mortified, but she doesn’t let go of my wrist, or look at all concerned. Instead, she just stares at me, her chest heaving, and I stare back, my pulse thundering in my ears.

“You can’t tell him about this,” she whispers, eyes wide. I blink rapidly, shaking my head a little. Of course I won’t tell the Mayor about her time together, or how my clumsiness got us into this position.

“I won’t,” I promise her, brows pulling together, and then she leans forward, tilting her chin upwards until her lips press against mine.

They’re soft, supple, and it’s so much better than anything I could’ve ever imagined. After getting over my initial astonishment, I kiss her back, cupping her jaw with the hand she has her fingers wrapped around.

She releases a short sound, and _oh_ blended with an exhale of air, and I pull back, breathless.

Her eyes gleam. Her cheeks glow. I’m sure I look just the same.

“I—I don’t—” I mumble, stunned.

“You have a painting to complete,” she says, voice like smoke. I stand upright, still breathing hard. She smiles, and I go back to the canvas.

_What?_

I do as she says, but we don’t say another word, not a single thing. I paint and I paint and I paint, and soon enough Madge appears to see how things are going. I try to act normal but sense that she knows something’s up. I don’t say anything and nor does Katniss. She just smiles at me, and when she makes to leave, complaining of her uncomfortable dress, her hand grazes over mine as she passes.

Madge promises to come back and walk me to the gate, and I nod, turning back to the painting.

The Katniss there looks like a goddess. Much more than just a girl from the Seam. She looks powerful, and I know that she is. I know the effect she can have on people. I have long known the effect she’s had over me.

I can’t help but wonder: will Mayor Undersee notice that there’s a flush to her cheeks? A shine to her eyes?

Will he think that it is for him?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> header pic is Antonello da Messina's 'Portrait of a Man'.
> 
> saturnblushes on tumblr and pinterest.


	7. half a heart alone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: reference/evidence of domestic abuse.  
> The waltz Peeta hears when he arrives at the mansion: Waltz in E Minor Op. Posth by Chopin  
> The first waltz: Waltz in A Flat Major Op.39/15 by Johannes Brahms  
> The final waltz: Waltz in D Flat Major Op.64/1 by Chopin.

I don’t know what to think. _How_ to think. I am lost, set adrift in an endless ocean, with nothing but my own reflection to keep me company.

The walk back to my apartment was one completed on autopilot. My mind was elsewhere, as I climbed the hill, turned left and then right, unlocked my front door.

And then, when I was alone and able to sit down and _think_ for a moment, I couldn’t figure out why she’d done it. Why had Katniss kissed me? I thought we were friends, nothing more. I’d made sure of that, after upsetting her so much the week before. And now? Now she’s completely surprised me.

For years I’ve wanted that. To kiss her. To just know what it would be like. I resigned myself to the truth; it was never going to happen. Why would it? Especially now that she’s married, and to the Mayor no less. Sure, it may not be a union borne out of love, but she is still married. And not to me.

 _Why_? That’s what I want to know. _Why now? Why me? What has changed?_

I have so many questions, but have a feeling, deep in my gut, that I won’t get any answers. At least not ones that will satisfy me. But this is something I’ve dreamt about since I was a kid—ever since I first laid eyes upon her in the school yard I have loved her. Ever since I knew what it meant to hold someone, kiss someone, _love someone_. I’d imagined it so many times, where our first kiss would be, and how after we’d fall deeper and deeper into love. At first it might have been a wishful, romantic fantasy, but that doesn’t mean the idea of it doesn’t still make my heart leap.

And now that it’s actually happened, I can’t help but feel conflicted. Beyond the fact that she’s a married woman and I’m nothing but an employee under her husband, the whole thing has a greyness to it. Something that corrupts the memory at the edges and leaves me anxious.

Katniss never seemed like the kind of girl who’d do such a thing. Never the one to kiss first, never the one to put herself in danger. Yet here she is, and I’ve been swept along with her. I don’t know what will happen next, or if we’ll be able to stay afloat.

One part of me—a masochistic part, perhaps—is eager to feel the adrenaline of almost drowning, of fighting, and at the same time, a second part is warning me. _This is not a good idea. Someone will be hurt. The waters will close overhead._

A small part barges through. It argues back. It reassures me. It’s the voice I listen to, the one that convinces me—with very little effort, I might add—that going back is a good idea.

My plans to do so are scuppered by the arrival of a note, delivered by a Peacekeeper early in the morning. Madge’s slanted, elegant scrawl informs me that the Mayor returned in the night, and that I must not return. I stare at the few sentences written there, the cursive _M_. Then I toss the paper into the furnace, and watch it burn out of existence.

I go to the Justice Building. I file and I type and I approve or reject applications of all sorts. I try to keep Katniss out of my head but I can’t. I stand by the window and watch the trees and wonder where she is, what she’s doing. Whether she’s regretting kissing me. I want to see her, to talk about this, and each passing day adds a weight to my heart that I can’t seem to shift.

It doesn’t help when the Mayor himself decides to pay me a visit. He thanks me for my continuing work with the portraits, and I try to act normal. I’m certain Katniss wouldn’t tell him about what happened but now that Mayor Undersee is actually here, I can’t help but feel that _somehow_ he knows.

He gives no signs but each word that passes between his lips seems like a barb. Each question a test. I feel like I’m be interrogated, and my efforts to pretend like nothing is the matter likely only make me look like an idiot.

If he notices, he doesn’t say a word.

“How was District 6?” I ask him conversationally, and he shrugs, clasping his hands over his stomach.

“Fine. They have excellent transport systems there, you know? You can send anything from one end of Panem to the other. Goods of all kinds, people too. It’s truly remarkable.”

“Do you think we’ll be able to get any of that?” I ask. It sure would be nice to not have to keep giving people bad news, just because the trains are always delayed.

The Mayor laughs. “I don’t think so, young man. At least not for a long while. And Twelve is small. Six has many people. They need these networks, but we fortunately do not.”

I hide my reaction behind a pleasant smile. How can he say that? Is he really that blind? That stupid? It’s clear that I’m not talking about transportation for Twelve. We’re a small district with a small population, so there’d be no place for a train network aside from the one we already have. I’m talking about ensuring that supplies arrive on time, so that our people don’t starve, so that they aren’t forced into extreme situations just to survive.

It makes me wonder how much he understands about why Katniss married him. He saw her mother’s illness, their lack of food and warmth and safety during the winter, but did he actually understand it? Once I had thought he was one of us. That he wanted good things for Twelve and its people. That he was harmless. But now I see that he really is just a puppet for the Capitol, an extension of their indifference. If that’s how some people view me now, because I’ve taken employment in the Justice Building—it makes me angry, infuriated, and also sets a deep well of dismay into my chest. I might not be the most rebellious person, but that doesn’t mean I worship the Capitol. Those far-off towers cause enough pain as it is.

“Do you think we might benefit from anything other improvements?” I ask evenly. “You must have learnt much from your travels, sir.”

He squints at me. “District 12 is not perfect, not by a long shot, but the reason people like you and I can stand here and work for a living is because the population remains the way it is. Of course there are issues, but there’s only so much I can do. Some people in this district are simply unable to fathom fixing their own problems. A true entrepreneurial spirit is lacking in the majority of the people in this town.”

The Mayor laughs. He gestures wildly. “Can you really expect me to solve all of this? I can hardly maintain the house and the grounds as it is. I shouldn’t be faulted for diverting cash away from where it will be wasted.”

I blink, for a moment surprised that he’s spoken to clearly about what he’s been doing. He might be framing it as a sensible or even _kind_ act—but why would he speak of it so openly? He knows I know. By talking about it like this, he pulls me further into it.

Heart pounding, I think of the First and Second schools, of their crumbling infrastructure and lack of resources. I think of the lack of train deliveries. I think of the floods and power outages and then the mines, so far removed and yet so part of my day to day life. I think of the accidents and the deaths. I think of the complete lack of medical care available to the district. All caused by a lack of repairs, a lack of money from the Capitol. All because of this man. And he wants to haul me into his mess just because I’m nearby?

“Say,” he begins, like it’s a natural digression from our previous topic of conversation. “You must have access to the ration allowances of each person in Twelve.”

I set my jaw. “I do.”

“What are they like?”

“Just numbers, sir. Nothing too interesting.”

“Ah, I must disagree,” he shakes his head, leaning forward. “Let me show you why they’re fascinating documents. If you’d just show one to me, I’ll let you in on a little secret about allowances.”

“Sir, I can’t show you these documents. They’re confidential. Private. I’m not supposed to show them to anyone other than the individuals they documents pertain.”

“I’m the Mayor!” he says, something angry sparking in his eyes before he schools it into an easy grin. “You said so yourself. They’re _my_ people. And I only want to learn about them.”

I reach over to my computer, and press a few keys. “I can send in a request, if you’d like, sir,” I say. “That’s the only way you’ll be able to get access.”

Immediately, he recoils, like I’ve struck him. “No, no,” he says gruffly, clearing his throat. “That won’t be necessary, will it? No use bothering with that.”

“But you won’t be able to access the files otherwise,” I tell him, watching a vein beginning to protrude from his forehead.

“Ah, that won’t be a problem. No, no. That’s fine.” He laughs, like it was all a big misunderstanding. “I’m glad you’re doing the right thing, Mr Mellark. Doing your job. Good work, well done.”

“Thank you, sir,” I say. He nods, flustered as he stands.

“Will you return to finish your work at the house?” he asks, tugging at his suit jacket. He must be stifled in the thing.

“Of course, sir,” I say. “I’ll be there on Wednesday.”

“Keep doing your job here, but, yes, come to the house. I’m sure you have much to do.”

I stand, my words clipped. “A little more on your wife’s portrait. And then I’ll work on Madge’s.”

“Good, good,” he says. He clears his throat and makes for the door. “No need to show me out, Mr Mellark.”

I watch him lumber into the hallway. “Good day, sir,” I call after him, and when the door closes, my genial, professional smile slips like a sack of flour, a frown sliding into place.

Why he wanted access to the rations data, I don’t know, but the idea of sending in an official request spooked him more than I ever thought it would. I knew he was up to something, but I couldn’t figure out what, and nor did I imagine it was anything so evidently illegal that he would leave my office like he was on fire.

I go to the window and look out at the square. I see him being escorted by an anonymous Peacekeeper through the town. I’m not a person who wishes ill on others, but that man… he makes me angry. What I would do to see him exposed for the damage he’s done over the years, to individuals, to families, to entire communities. What I would do to make it all come toppling down.

My frustration only increases tenfold when I leave the Justice Building late that afternoon. I’ve just hardly made it down the steps when a Seam woman approaches me.

“You denied my claim?” she asks, thin lips a flat line. Despite the summer heat, she looks cold and grey.

“Pardon?”

“I claimed sick pay. And it was declined by your office.”

I squint. I don’t recognise her, so she must have gone to one of the other clerks. “You can reapply tomorrow, ma’am, I’d be happy to look into it,” I say.

She gives me a dirty look, muttering under her breath about _loyalty_ and _Mayor Undersee_ before stalking away, so it’s not difficult for me to figure out what she means.

I head to the butcher’s next, to pick up something for supper, and I’m met with the same thing.

“I thought you were raised better than this, boy,” the butcher says after asking me about updating his seller’s license and about the latest supply train. I glance around. The others waiting for their orders eye me, some with discomfort, some with the same simmering anger.

“Look,” I say, trying to keep my voice even and not jump into defensiveness. “I’m doing a job. You think I want to deny claims all day?”

“That doesn’t mean you side with the Mayor,” he hisses. “You ought to wake up to where your loyalty is, and where it should be.”

I leave empty-handed and feeling disjointed. Never before have I been at the receiving end of this kind of vitriol. It’s just a damn job. I’m still a baker’s son at heart. I’m not loyal to the Mayor. I’m as much a Merchant as any of the others around me. I grew up in these very streets.

Through the remainder of the day I can’t shake the sensation that something has shifted. It’s like the entire world has tilted at an angle and I’m the only one left trying to regain my footing. _It’s just a job_.

The following the day, I’m glad to be at the mansion, despite what people say about my being there.

I paint her. I call at the house and I paint her for the final time. She’s not there, of course, and hasn’t been for the past week, but I sense her presence in the room like a flash of light impressing on my closed eyelids. I don’t need her to sit for me anymore because it’s all about the finishing touches, now, the smaller details that complete the image and make it whole. So I just sit alone in that grand room with the lounger Katniss was sat in for so long empty, with nothing but the smell of paint and the scrape of brush against canvas and the rattle of a brush dunked into a water jar.

It was some miracle in itself to have her there for so long. It was a pleasure to have her there.

At midday, Stillman appears with lunch on a tray. A tureen of stew, with rice and vegetables. A pitcher of fruit tea. The mansion is yet to run low on supplies. I drag my stool over to the window to eat, needing some fresh air and a change of scenery before my eyes cross over and stay there.

The gardens really are beautiful. I think of the roses I saw when I visited Madge at the beginning of the year, sparkling with ice. Now the garden is alive, brimming with flowers. Bright summer scents drift through the air like mist, while the lulling drone of bees fills my ear. The sun beats down like it has been for the entire season, and yet much of this garden is still alive. Someone has kept it watered, while the rest of the district finds itself in the grip of a drought.

I spot movement past the lawn, down by where the shrubs begin to blur my view. A flash of a dress, and then a hat, and then another figure. Madge, first, in her trademark blue. A straw sunhat pulled low over her head to protect from the sunlight. And then, Katniss in white, with a hat of her own, a green ribbon tied around the brim.

I watch them for a moment. They’re picking flowers, I think, bundling them into their arms. I almost wish I could be out there, but then I think about the kiss and all over again I find myself unable to imagine what I’d do or say to Katniss if I actually saw her. I would no doubt do nothing, just stand mutely until embarrassment forced the earth to swallow me whole.

Lunch finished, I return to the painting. The afternoon passes quietly. By the early evening, I sit back to take in my work. One more day of details and it will be done. I cannot extend the process any longer, but at least I still have Madge’s portrait to complete, and just a little more time with Katniss. A little more time to, at the very least, ask her why she kissed me.

I cover the painting and pack up the palette and tubes of paint, and then take the lunch tray, laden with my used brushes and dirty water jars, out into the corridor. My shoes tap against the chequered tiles and the water sloshes about, now a brownish-green colour.

Turning my back on the door to the scullery, I push it open to the sound of chopping.

“Tullia?” I call out. I’ve gotten used to her presence here, often preparing meals when I come in to wash my brushes. Sometimes she’s the last person I see before I leave.

But instead I’m met with a crowded room. Tullia is there, smiling at me and waving a hand in greeting, slicing a pile of root vegetables. Madge sits at the head of the table, Katniss to her left, and they’re elbow-deep in the flowers I saw them picking earlier.

“Oh, Peeta, I almost forgot you were here!” Madge says. I go to the sink and pour out the glasses.

“It’s a big house,” I say. I look over my shoulder. At them both, but first and finally on Katniss. She’s focused on the flowers, stripping leaves and thorns from the stems. “How are you both?” I ask.

“Well, it’s been lovely weather,” Madge answers. “We spent the day at the pond and then decided to collect flowers for Katniss’ bedroom.”

“Sounds fun,” I say. “I didn’t know you had a pond.”

“Oh, yes, just past the treeline.”

I wash the paint out of the brush bristles, watching the day’s colours seep out and down into the drain. I barely know what to do. What to say.

Madge fills the silence, talking to Tullia about the best way to bend the stem of the flower she’s holding, and once I’m finished and towelling off my hands, I force myself to turn around.

“I’ll be finished with your portrait tomorrow,” I say, addressing Katniss directly. She doesn’t react at first, fingers dancing over stems, and then looks up abruptly.

“Oh?”

“Yes. Just some finishing touches. And then it will be done.”

She nods. “That’s good, Peeta. You’ve worked on it for a long time.”

“Yes,” I say. “You were good company.”

She smiles down at the plants. Madge eyes the two of us, as does Tullia, albeit more subtly.

“Those are beautiful,” I say, reaching for a branch with dark, pointed leaves and dark purple buds.

Katniss hums. “Beautiful but deadly,” she says. “The berries will kill you before they hit your stomach.”

I blanch. “Oh,” I say, wiping my hand on my thigh. “Should I wash my hands?”

“The leaves are just fine,” she says.

I nod, eye the plant, and then clear my throat. Katniss doesn’t seem angry with me, but she doesn’t seem to want to talk. How can she not? Why wouldn’t she want to at least acknowledge what had happened?

“I better head back,” I announce. “It’s getting late.”

The sun has a few hours in it yet, but I know when it’s best to leave. No matter what I want to ask and say and do, I just have to go.

“Tullia, could you walk him out?” Madge asks. “I’ll finish the parsnips.”

Tullia nods and hands over the knife, and then wipes her hands on her apron. She looks at me and offers me a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. _Ready?_ she signs.

“My jacket is by the door,” I answer, and we duck back out into the corridor. She’s a brisk walker and we reach my coat in no time. I sling it over my shoulder and she opens the door. Bugs swirl in the summer air, much warmer than the cool darkness of the mansion.

“Well, good evening,” I say on the porch. Tullia reaches out and puts her hand over my covered forearm. Her brows pull together. She lifts her other hand. _Be careful_.

I furrow my brow. “I will,” I say, unsure of what she’s talking about exactly. She shuts the door before I can ask her, so I set off down the driveway as the mansion’s shadow begins to creep towards the gate. The sun is red and gold like a split fruit.

…

The next day, I walk slowly to the Undersee’s. I’m tired, having barely slept because of the heat and my reeling mind.

Around me, the district awakens, people opening shops for the day or heading to work. I see the grocer putting out a sign that he’s run out of an array of products because of the delays. Usually I’d lift my head, wave to people, wish them a good morning, but this time I keep my head down and keep to myself. These people already know where I’m headed. There’s no use in adding fuel to the fire.

I arrive and Stillman lets me in. I gather my things in the scullery. I go to the room to paint. I prop open the windows to let in the air and let out the paint fumes. I see no one else.

I paint. Slowly, little dabs of colour to build the depth. A hint of white on the edge of the lounger to make it gleam. A rich purple-brown hue to deepen the shadow beneath Katniss’ bouquet.

By midday I’m done. I step away from the painting, standing from a distance to assess the entire thing. I can’t deny it’s my best work. Katniss looks beautiful, but it’s not just the dress or the hair or the makeup making her cheeks pink. It’s the lift of her chin, how her deadly gaze looks through the viewer as if to demand a reason for their returning stare. As if anyone could ever pull their eyes away. The effect she has… she will never be the subject of it, and so how can she understand how it drugs me so?

Tullia appears with my lunch.

“Thank you,” I say, and just as she’s about to disappear through the door, I call her name and walk towards her. She peers through the doorway. “Could you tell Madge and Katniss it’s finished?” I ask her. “I’d like them to see it.”

Her expression is unreadable. But there is something different. Something I can instinctively tell is not right. How can it be so after just one night?

She nods, and then she’s gone.

I sit and eat my lunch by the window again. I try to chase a honeybee back out into the open when it darts inside.

After half an hour of just me and the honeybee, I resign myself to the fact that neither of them are coming. All I asked of Tullia was to inform them, so there never was a guarantee that they would actually come down, though I had hoped they would.

I go back to the painting. It will sit upon a wall and greet guests right at the door. I hope it tells each and every one of them exactly what they need to know about Katniss Everdeen. With a sigh, I carefully cover it and gather my things. I suppose I’ll be leaving early, with no glimpse of my friends. Or, my friend and the woman I can barely figure out.

But the door creaks, and there’s the sound of bare feet on the hardwood. I turn and almost drop the glass jar in my grip.

She’s here. Alone.

“Hi,” I say, voice cracking. I try again. “No Madge?”

“She said I should come alone.”

I nod. Of course. Katniss shuts the heavy wooden door behind her and walks over. She’s in a high-necked, long-sleeved dress, a simple cotton to ward away the heat as if she’s some delicate bud and not someone who spent much of her life roaming the forest for deer even when wildfires swept through.

“You’re finished?” she asks.

“Yeah. Finally,” I say. “Still have Madge’s to do but yours done.”

She smiles. She has no make up on, her hair is tied back in her trademark braid. She looks young. She looks more like herself than she has for weeks and months. And yet in her eyes, in the downturn of her mouth, there’s a flatness that doesn’t sit right in my chest.

I set down my things. I want to go to her and ask her what’s wrong, do whatever I can to try and fix it. But I know I can’t. Even after the kiss.

My lips tingle at the memory of it. It’s like the first sunlight after a long winter, warm and hopeful and achingly bright. And I kissed her back. I leaned into that brightness even though it blinded me.

“Would you like to see it?” I ask, desperate to keep talking.

“Please.” She puts her arms around herself as if she’s cold, though her bare feet and the heat rolling in from outside mean it’s unlikely.

I go to the canvas and she walks deeper into the room.

“Back a little,” I say, raising my hand to guide her with a gentle push on her elbow but thinking better of it and pulling away at the last minute. She steps back. “You want to see it fully,” I clarify, stepping forward to take the edge of the cloth draped over the painting.

“Will I be impressed?” she asks. I can’t help but smile. It’s the first mildly teasing thing she’s said to me since that day.

“You must,” I say. “I will refuse any criticisms.”

Her mouth quirks into a small smile. Then I lift the cloth.

Silence. Her eyes widening, her lips parting. I wait a respectful minute and then can’t hold back my need for a verbal reaction.

“What do you think?” I ask, hating how fragile my voice sounds, as if my perception of my work’s worth is entirely based on her response. It is, of course, but I don’t want her to know that.

“Peeta,” she whispers. She shakes her head, eyes darting around the canvas and then onto me. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“You are an excellent subject.”

“No, no,” she murmurs. She slides closer to me. I can feel the static between us. “This is all you.”

“So you like it?” I ask.

“Yes.”

I nod. Good. I look at the painting, and then feel her eyes on me. I look at her. She doesn’t shy away.

“What?” I ask.

She just shrugs. _Nothing_.

“Come closer,” I say awkwardly. “It’s still wet—it won’t dry for a while yet. But you can see the details.”

She steps forward. I keep back, giving her space.

“Every piece is important,” she says. “Every stroke. Every drop of colour.”

“The dress was the hardest part,” I shrug. “The pleats. The shine of the fabric.”

Katniss comes back and stands beside me. She loops her arm through mine. She must know how it makes my heart rate soar. I look down at her forearm, intending to say something witty, but I’m struck by her wrist. Her sleeve has shifted down her forearm through the movement of her arm hooking through mine, revealing a slope of tanned, soft skin.

Except I can see bruises. The shape of fingers wrapped around, a deep and angry red, tinged with blue at the edges. Recent. Still painful.

I don’t realise she’s talking until I interrupt her by saying her name.

“What is this?” I ask, my mind slamming from the overwhelming knowledge that her arm is in mine to anger at what I see on her skin.

“What?” she asks, confused, and then she sees what I see and pulls away like she’s been burned, her other hand caressing her forearm. She yanks down her sleeve. I step forward, she back.

“Peeta,” she says, the warmth in her voice replaced by an awful hollow ring.

“He did this to you,” I say.

She looks away and then back again, eyes steely with defiance, as if she is readying to defend herself. As if she’s done something wrong, or as if she expects me to criticise her.

“What happened?” I ask.

“An argument. He’s busy, stressed about the riots. Worried about them happening here.” She grinds her jaw. “We argued and he gets frustrated easily.”

“He’s a _grown man_ ,” I say, eyes narrowing. “That is no reaction to have. Especially to you.”

“I’m not innocent in this,” she hisses. “I’m not a good wife, Peeta.”

“So he needs to take it out on you?” I spit. “Bullshit, Katniss.” She blinks as if surprised by the curse. I’m unable to stop myself. I knew this was never about love and affection but I didn’t think this would be the reality of it all. I knew Madge was happy when he was away. The entire house relaxes when he’s gone. I never thought it would be because of this.

“Does Madge know?” I ask.

“Yes. Better me than her. I can handle him, Peeta. I can handle everything.”

I speak before I think. “You’re not his wife. Not really.”

Katniss’ eyes widen. “Keep your voice down,” she hisses. “Panem law states that I am. I can’t escape that. Neither of us can.”

“The law and the truth are not the same thing.”

She looks away.

“You are not to blame for his anger,” I tell her. I’m upset. Angry and agonised. And then it vanishes from me in a snap, leaving me feeling cold. I go forward and take her arm in mine, gently holding it in my palms. She lets me. “Katniss,” I whisper. She puts her free hand on my chest. “I don’t know what to do to make this better.”

“You can’t,” she says simply. “It’s not up to you, Peeta. This is the ways things need to be for the moment.”

“But—”

“Your being here has been reprieve enough.”

I stare at her.

“Last time…” I venture. “Why did you—?”

“I wanted to.” She exhales shakily. “Peeta. I want to, even now. I know I shouldn’t.”

It’s like a cut to my heart. She takes my hands in hers, presses her lips to my knuckles. Her eyes shut, lashes casting shadows over her cheekbones.

“It was stupid of me,” she says, looking up. “To do what I did. Here, with so many windows.”

“Do you regret it?” I ask.

She squeezes my hands. “You should go. Grab your things.”

“Katniss,” I say, when she goes to the door. My shoulders slump, as if she’s pulling all the strength from my body with her every step. “Please. Do you regret it?”

She bites her lip. “Not yet.”

She twists the handle, the door creaks open. I cover the painting and grab the water jars and brushes then I’m following her into the hallway. She’s silent, listening for footsteps. Then she beckons me on, and we hurry down to the scullery. Empty. She takes the lunch tray and sets it onto the counter. Splashes paint water into the drain. Dumps it aside.

Then she looks at me and tugs me down the few inches between us with a hand on the back of my neck and nothing I can do can save me then. She kisses me. It’s soft and gentle and everything smells like the flowers drying on the rafters and the honeysuckle floating in from the tiny window heaved open above the door, and I bring my hands down to rest on her waist, marvelling at the feel of her skin just though a layer of cotton.

“Peeta,” she whispers against my mouth.

“Why are you doing this?” I ask, because I have to know. I need to know why when she knows this cannot be.

“I can’t stop myself,” she says.

She kisses me again. I let her. I slide my hand up her spine and lean into it.

“Will you be okay?” I ask, my heart pitching in my chest at the thought of her getting hurt.

“Everything will work itself out,” she promises.

I don’t know how much time passes but when we separate I feel lightheaded and Katniss’ mouth is bruised, her eyes dark. She opens the door that leads straight outside and I follow her through it.

“Along there,” she says. It’s the same path Madge snuck me down so long ago.

“I’ll see you next week," I tell her, stepping fully into the sunlight. She grips the door handle.

“I wish he’d never picked you,” she murmurs, eyes flickering past me. “I should have stayed away.”

And then she’s slipping back into the cool shadows of the house, leaving me to fumble my way to the fence and the gate and to the tiny side street that she met me on, once.

…

The weekend moves slowly. I’m at the Justice Building on the Saturday, filing away, and back again Monday and Tuesday. It’s monotonous work, and it does nothing to soothe my racing mind.

That’s two kisses now. Each one initiated by Katniss. I replay the feeling of her lips on mine, the shape of her body under my hands. The more times I return to the moment, the more it begins to feel like a dream, soft at the edges, unattainable but enveloping in its realness.

This atmosphere seems to spread to the mansion, too. When I return to begin painting Madge, the energy there is markedly different than it was before. It’s lighter, and not silent, either. When Stillman opens the door for me he points me up the staircase and along to Madge’s quarters. Piano music flutters down the hallway in little pirouettes.

I adjust the collar of my shirt in the burnished mirror hanging a few meters from the door and shake out my hands to try and distil some of my nerves. Then I rap my knuckles on the door and push it open, poking my head around.

“Peeta!” Madge exclaims from the piano. “Come in, come in, how are you?”

“I’m very well, Madge. I could hear you at the door. I forget how good you are.”

She dances her fingers over the high notes. “I’m a little rusty but practice makes perfect.”

“Where’s Katniss?” I ask.

“Spiriting around the halls, I’m not sure where exactly,” she says easily. “Are you ready to begin painting?”

“Yes,” I say, and we descend to the same room I’ve been kept in for so long.

I get Madge to sit again, albeit just in her normal clothes. I just need to get the proportions right, and it’s nice to be in the same room with her and just talk. We catch up on everything. I tell her about Rye and Damson, about my work at the Justice Building, and she tells me about the comings and goings of the mansion.

“I bought some strawberries yesterday,” she says, smiling. I know she’s addicted to the things, but that they’re too expensive to ship into the district even by Undersee standards. I assume Vick is her source, now that Katniss isn’t able to hunt, let alone leave the grounds. “I could eat them just as they are but Katniss insisted I leave some so we could make them into jams and cakes.”

“Eat them dipped in sugar,” I say, and she pulls a face.

“You think that wasn’t my first thought?” she asks, and I grin. I concentrate on swiping a deep blue over the canvas to block out her dress. It feels both therapeutic and like I’m stuck in a loop, constantly beginning one portrait just after finishing another, but I really can’t complain.

“Oh, I have a note from Katniss for you to deliver,” she says after a moment.

“A note?”

“Yes. To her family.”

I nod. She got the note Gale asked me to give her. I wonder how it must feel, to have such little communication with them despite living just a few miles away. After spending her life living right beside them all, it must be torture.

“Has she gotten out much?” I ask quietly.

“No,” Madge says. “I tried to sneak her out a few weeks ago but there was a Peacekeeper at the gate.”

“The back gate?”

Something in her face stiffens. “Yes. They’ve upped security around the mansion.”

I think back to her comments about the troubles in other districts. Things here seem to have been fairly calm, even with the drought and water rationing and late trains. I doubt anyone would try and harm any of the Undersees, not even with Cray as Head Peacekeeper.

“I’m sure you’ll manage when things calm down,” I say, an attempt at reassurance, but she doesn’t look convinced.

“If,” she replies, pulling a piece of hair back behind her ear. “I don’t want to think about politics or my father’s work, but I can’t help it.”

“Is something bothering you?” I ask. She lifts an eyebrow. “More than usual?” I clarify. She sighs.

“There’s just… things happening… which he managed to keep under control while my mother was still here.” She absent-mindedly smoothes her hand over her dress. I bring my paintbrush away from the canvas and dunk it into the water. “He’s done some irresponsible things and it’s all going to spill over at some point. It’s inevitable at this point.”

“I’m sure he’ll figure things out,” I say, though I loathe to give the Mayor any credit. The more I’ve gotten to know him, the more reason I have to believe that he has purposefully contributed to the problems in Twelve, that it’s not as out of his control as he has us believe.

“He’s holding a special dinner next Friday,” Madge says. “Invited some of his business partners from the districts. One from the Capitol, though I doubt she’ll want to come here. And the Games Escort and Haymitch Abernathy too.” She rolls her eyes. “I’m sure it will be a fun night.”

I smile. “Am I invited?”

She grimace. “I’m afraid not.”

I clutch at my chest. “Thank god,” I say, and she glares at me. I laugh. “I’ll think of you,” I offer.

“It won’t be enough,” she groans.

The day whiles itself away until I proclaim that I’ve done all I can do before I smear all the wet paint into a grey mess.

“Alright,” Madge says as she stands up, picking up the tray of tea she brought in. I hold the door for her as she passes through. “Give me the brushes and go and find Katniss. She can give you her letter.”

“Are you sure?” I ask.

“Yes, Peeta, I’m sure,” she rolls her eyes. I set the brushes and jars of water onto the tray, making sure they don’t slide about. “I’ll be at the piano after I’ve done this. Tell her to come down.”

“Alright,” I say. She begins walking down the corridor to the scullery.

“Up you go!” she calls over her shoulder. “She’s in study!” And then I’m alone, faced with the staircase and my own nerves.

I put my foot on the first step, hand on the banister, and listen. The house is quiet. Taking a breath, I climb the staircase, turning left at the top. Sunlight spills in through the windows, giving a fantastic view of the grounds. I’ve only ever been this side of the house once before, tending to stay in the east wings where Madge’s quarters are.

On the walls are paintings of Undersees, going back generations. I take a moment, staring at them. The old, cracked canvas, fading over time, their gaudy gold frames dull with age. People from eons ago, before Panem. I try to imagine it. Their lives. Were they so different from my own?

A dark green runner follows the length of the hallway, several doors to my right leading to who knows where. But I know where the study is. The Mayor has his own in the north side of the house, but there’s a more general, family study in the west wing, leading to a library which, for as long as I’ve known Madge, has been strictly off-limits.

I reach the study and knock. A quiet _come in_ echoes through, so I push the door open.

It’s not a particularly large room, painted blue with a white trim and beige curtains pulled over the huge window facing south. Sunlight streams through the gap in the middle, illuminating two rectangular wooden desks carrying lamps and a rounded chaise by a swept-clean fireplace.

“Katniss?” I ask, stepping more fully into the room. The heavy door swings shut of its own accord.

“I’m here,” comes her reply, soft. The curtain twitches and I realise she’s sat on the wide window ledge, entirely hidden from view. She pulls it back and pokes her head out. “You done with Madge?”

“Yeah,” I say, pulling at my shirt sleeves. She beckons me over and I duck behind the material of the curtain. I squint in the bright sunlight captured there between the material and the glass panes. For a minute we just look at each other, and then I blurt out, “How are you?”

“I’m good,” she smiles. “How was the painting?”

“Good,” I echo. “Good.”

She nods. Her eyes are like molten steel in the sunlight.

“What are you doing?” I ask, looking down at the leaves of paper in her hand.

“Just reading my sister’s letter. She’s spent three paragraphs just talking about her goat.”

“What else is there to talk about?” I joke.

“At least it’s not about the cat,” she sighs, but her smile is genuine.

“Do you often get letters from them?”

“Not as much as I’d like.”

“I’m here to collect the one you’ve written for Gale.”

“Thank you,” she murmurs. “It’s on the table.”

I nod and step back out back into the shadowed room, spying the envelope on the desk closest. The curtain rustles and I turn to see Katniss standing, lit from behind by the light.

“I’m sorry if I upset you last week,” she says. Her hand drifts over and takes mine. I’m unable to fight it, though my heart begins beating faster and faster, a hum in my ears that’s amplified by the quiet room.

“What do you mean?”

“For what I said. I don’t blame you for anything. I’m happy that you’re here. We never really had the chance to speak before all this.”

“Oh,” I say. She leans in.

“I think we might have been good friends,” she says.

“Really?” I can feel how wide my eyes are.

She hums an affirmative. “Imagine how things might have been instead.”

I blink, seeing a sudden flash of a life I could have led, of a life parallel to my own. Friendship with Katniss, perhaps even love if I could convince her of how much I adored her. And then there would have been none of this. No Mayor, no mansion, nothing. It would have been just us.

She pushes her fingers through my hair and rests her hand on the back of my neck. She smells sunny, and like old paper.

“What are you doing?” I ask, feeling my cheeks going red.

“You don’t mind, do you?” she murmurs. I shake my head. And then she shifts slightly onto the balls of her feet and kisses me. It’s soft, slow, like the others, and the feel of her other hand on my chest makes me dizzy. She opens her mouth wider and gasps into the kiss, and I can’t help the sound that escapes me. I feel her smile against my lips and pull her closer, arms looping around her waist, fingers splaying across the small of her back.

“Hey,” she gasps, taking a step away but pulling me forward with a hand fisted in the front of my shirt.

“What?” I ask, breathless, and then she hops up onto one of the desks and spreads her legs, gathering up the material of her dress skirt so it’s not in the way.

I feel the room tilt at the sight and stumble forward like a drunk man. She grins, hauling me closer, and then I’m firmly in between her thighs, she hooks her ankles behind my knees. My hands first land on her hips but as she leans back a little, holding onto my waist to keep her balance, they drop down to bracket her, palms flat on the cool wooden surface.

“What do you want?” I ask, nosing along her jawline.

“You, Peeta,” she says, her voice low and husky. “You.”

I press slow, hot kisses down her neck. This is completely different to any other girl I’ve been with. Granted, that list is small, but I never felt the burning heat I feel now. Now I can’t get enough, sucking a bruise at her collar bone.

“Don’t leave a mark,” she gasps, and although it wasn’t meant to, the warning pulls me back into reality with a jolt.

She’s married. To the Mayor. I shouldn’t be doing this.

“We should stop,” I say, and it hurts that she looks disappointed.

“He’s in the gardens,” she says. “He usually falls asleep out there.”

“But…” I feel like a complete idiot. She clearly doesn’t want to talk about it, but I can’t help it. I don’t understand why she’s doing this, why she would do something that could so quickly spell disaster.

I blink. She sits more upright, lips swollen, eyes dark, skirts around her thighs. I tell myself it’s not stupid to stop this.

“Okay,” she says, lightly pushing me back. “You’re feeling guilty.”

“You’re not?” I ask, and she narrows her eyes.

“It’s more complicated than that. There are bigger things at play than guilt.”

“Can you try and explain it to me, then?” I ask, suddenly courageous. “Katniss—this is the third time now. And I—I don’t know what you want with it. It can’t go anywhere. I just want to understand what you want.”

“I want you, Peeta. That’s it. Please stop second-guessing everything. Just let it be.”

I blink at her. Why is it that she always leaves me speechless?

“You can take the letter,” she says, plucking the envelope up. “Thanks for delivering it for me.”

I take it and slide it into one of the pockets in my waistcoat so it’s out of sight. The room comes back into focus.

“Madge is waiting for us,” I say roughly, and Katniss hops off the desk, pulling down her skirts as she heads for the door, just barely leaving it open for me.

I follow her down the hallway, half-expecting the Mayor to jump out with a flaming torch and a Peacekeeper entourage, but he’s nowhere in sight. I feel as if electricity is coursing through me, but also like I’ve left part of myself behind in that study.

Katniss looks over her shoulder. I look at her. She says nothing.

“You took long enough!” Madge says when we enter the room, and Katniss shrugs, coming to lean against the instrument.

“I was just finishing up with writing my letter,” she says evenly. Madge obviously knows that there’s something going on, but Katniss must have her reasons for concealing the truth so she doesn’t press.

“You’ll deliver it, won’t you Peeta?” she asks.

“Yes,” I say. “Of course.”

Madge beams. “Okay,” she says. “Now, Peeta, I know you’re not going to be attending the dinner, but I need someone to teach Katniss how to dance and I can’t do that if I’m on the piano.”

There’s a beat. And then,

“I’m not a good dancer,” I splutter.

“I don’t need a teacher,” Katniss insists at the same moment.

“You do,” Madge tells her. “I know you can dance, Katniss, but a jive won’t cut it in front of my father’s guests.” She turns to me, her blue eyes scheming. “Peeta, you can dance a fine waltz.” She claps her hands together as if that’s the end of that, and I suppose it is, because Katniss sighs and stands up properly, walking towards me.

“I didn’t know you can waltz,” she says critically, hands on her hips. I furrow my brow, still thinking about what happened in the study.

“Madge’s mother taught us both when we were younger.”

She lifts an eyebrow, smiles. I don’t expect an apology—she’s done nothing that would warrant one—but I still want an explanation. I doubt I’ll get one any time soon, so I suppose I’ll just have to do what she asks, and leave it be.

Madge flips through her sheet music.

“Well?” Katniss says, and I try to ignore how red the back of my neck is getting as she puts one of her hands on my shoulder. “I know this,” she says, taking my other hand and stepping closer.

I place my hand on her waist. Not too high, not too low. Awfully conservative considering those brief minutes in the study, and yet my blush is spreading beneath my shirt.

Madge begins a simple waltz with a steady beat. I look at Katniss, who stares stubbornly up at me. I make up my mind. Two can play at this game.

“Alright,” I say. “It’s three steps. We move in a square. And turn. And sometimes you’ll be spun around by your partner.”

I look down at our feet and kick hers further apart. I can feel her looking at me, but I refuse to return it. I just focus on our feet and count. _One-two-three, one-two-three_. It’s the one dance I can do, otherwise I’m standing on toes and causing havoc, but I guess this one was taught to me early enough that it stuck.

We move slowly at first, but she’s a quick learner, and soon we’re twirling around the room. Madge finishes the song and picks another, one much faster than even I’m used to. I shoot her a look but she’s grinning, thoroughly enjoying herself.

“Okay,” I say to Katniss. “Spin.”

“What?” she says, surprised, but then I’m pushing her waist and twirling her out, keeping one hand in mine, and then bringing her back in close in one smooth movement, before she can even try to fight it.

“That was good,” I tell her, and she rolls her eyes. Some of the tension in her shoulders has begun to fade, though, and when I do it again and again and then again, she can’t help but let out a laugh.

“Stop, stop, I’m going to fall over,” she says, throwing her hands in the air, and I grin. I pull off my waistcoat because it’s rather warm especially now that we’re moving, draping it over the piano and rolling up my shirt sleeves.

“I’ve got to teach you to bow properly,” I say, and she gives me a look that suggests she thinks I’m pulling her leg. “I’m serious,” I laugh, turning to Madge. “Madge, tell her I’m telling the truth.”

“He’s telling the truth, Katniss,” Madge says, not even looking away from the keys.

“Fine,” Katniss says, and she gives a jaunty bow, picking up one side of her skirt. “How’s that?”

“Absolutely horrid,” I tell her honestly, and she pouts.

“Fine,” she says. “Teach me.”

I step closer. Madge plays with gusto, clearly happy to have an audience who will dance to even her more elaborate music. Katniss, flushed from the exercise, hair falling out of her braid, looks stunning.

“Take my hand,” I say, and she does. “Now, I bow like this.” I bow at the waist, dipping my head. “And you, like this.” I put one foot behind the other and bend at the knee.

“That looks _so_ stupid.”

“Well I don’t have a dress on, do I?” I retort, and she hides her smile behind her hand.

She practises her bow and I do the same.

“Why do we do this?”

“It’s courtesy. It’s like I’m asking your permission to dance.”

“What if I don’t want to dance with you?”

“Then you turn around,” I say, doing so. “And do this.”

I look over my shoulder and pull my most childish expression, eyes crossing, tongue wagging. Katniss snorts.

“Disgusting,” she says flippantly, so I surge over and grab her hands and begin spinning her. We twirl about the room, past the painted landscapes hanging on the walls, past the mirror, and through the jets of sunlight pouring in through the windows as the sun sets outside. Although time doesn’t slow, this would certainly be the moment for it. I want to simply live in it forever, the music, the dancing, and Katniss smiling.

But then Madge slips on the piano, missing a note, and I stop, looking around to find the reason for her mistake.

The Mayor, letting himself in.

I step away from Katniss.

“Ah, attempting lessons?” he asks, voice loud and grating in the now silent room.

“Father,” Madge mutters.

“Sir,” I reply. “Yes. Madge thought it a good idea.”

“I’d say,” he laughs sharply. He walks in further. I see he has a large grass stain on his side, and a sunburn on his nose.

“Let’s give it a go, then,” he says, beckoning Katniss over. She goes, tension wracking her frame. Madge begins to play. I stand and watch it all unfold in front of me. Katniss, stiff, the Mayor lumbering.

And that’s how I come to the realisation that it’s not guilt I feel. Katniss was wrong about that. It’s not that I feel _wrong_ about kissing her—in fact, it’s one of the only things I’ve felt this strongly about in a long time. But knowing that we’re going against the law, that we’re going against traditions and conventions, that this could spell disaster if we’re caught, that behind closed doors and in shadowy rooms she wants _this_ — _me_ —I can barely wrap my head around it all.

Two halves of my brain are at war. One side frets over the danger of it all, the stupidity, but the second half is thrilled by it. _She wants you. No one else_. And that half is the one that wins most of the time, selfish and jealous and satisfied that I can do this behind the Mayor’s back.

And now, watching him dance with her, standing on her feet, I feel that jealously surge like a wave. I lean against the piano and she looks over the Mayor’s shoulder at me before they turn again.

“She’s much better now!” the Mayor exclaims. “Before it was like dancing with a plank of wood.”

I smile politely.

“I didn’t know you could dance as well, young man,” he continues. “You must come to the dinner, make the people of Twelve look more civilised than they are.”

My smile becomes tight at the corners of my mouth. When did I become so irritated by the man? Was it at the Justice Building, learning of his indiscretions, or was it here, with Katniss to tell me what he is truly like?

“I shouldn’t,” I say. “I’m just an office worker, sir.”

The Mayor stops, unlocking his hands from Katniss, who takes a few steps away.

“Nonsense. You are a refined painter and dancer, too, it seems. You can unveil the portraits to my guests, they’ll be absolutely fascinated.”

I look to Madge. She gives me a slight shrug.

“Okay,” I say. “It would be my pleasure, sir.”

The Mayor rubs his hands together. “Good. I’ll make sure there’s a place setting for you. Next Friday, six sharpish. Dress smart, boy.”

“Yes sir.”

He looks around the room. “It’s getting rather late. I’ll walk you to the door.”

I pick up my waistcoat. “Thank you for the music, Madge,” I say, and then I look to Katniss. “And for being a good dance partner,” I tell her, and I mean it.

“Thank you,” she murmurs, head lowered, but as soon as the Mayor is out of sight, she lifts her chin and smiles at me. I feel my heart leap and duck through the door.

The Mayor chatters inanely down the corridor and the stairs and to the front door. He thanks me again for painting, and for teaching ‘that girl’ how to dance ‘properly’.

“As for the ball,” he says, hand on the door handle. “I insist you attend.”

I want to laugh. Of course. “I’d be happy to, sir.”

He gives me a conspiring look. “You mustn’t tell her, but I’d like you to court my daughter. You’d be a good match, young man. And she needs someone with a head like yours to keep her in check.”

I feel like I’ve been bowled over. So much has happened in the past thirty minutes and now this? The universe truly is taunting me.

“Sir,” I say. “Madge and I are—friends. _Only_ friends.”

“So was I with my wife,” he says grandly. “I wore her down! I don’t doubt you can do the same. You could do a lot worse in this district.”

I’m speechless. By the utter shock of his suggestion, and by the realisation that he seems certain that he’s found a husband for Madge. For a moment I have a thought that perhaps he knows. That he knows something about Katniss and me. And that he’s doing what he can do distract from it. Marrying me off to his daughter and, by law, Katniss’, would certainly do the job.

I look him in the eye, but he gives nothing away. Perhaps I’m just being paranoid.

“Have pleasant evening, Mr Mellark,” he says, opening the door. He gives me his hand to shake and squeezes tightly.

“You too, Mayor Undersee,” I reply, stilted and formal.

And then I’m walking off down the steps and onto the gravel, the sound of piano music following me down from that open window like a ghost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> saturnblushes on tumblr and pinterest, come say hi :)


	8. no absolutes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Smut ahead, readers!

I spend an hour in my apartment thinking about the day’s events before deciding that I can’t bear being stuck in my own head. The kiss, the dancing, and now the Mayor’s invite and intertwined requests. It’s all swirling around in my head like a storm.

So I go and visit Mitch and Laurel. It’s been a while since I saw them last, and even longer since I actually spent some time with them beyond quick catch-up chats or waves and hugs and _we’ll have dinner!_ when we bump into each other in the street.

I bring cake and when Laurel opens the door, she shouts for her husband and hugs me close.

“We might live on opposite sides of town, Peeta, and I know we’re all very busy, but we need to meet up more,” she says.

“I know, I know,” I say, because none of us really have any excuses. But Mitch and Laurel are the kind of friends who can carry on a conversation like no time has passed at all. No grudges are held, and no distance comes between us.

Mitch appears and wraps me into a bear hug, slapping his hand on my back.

“What brings you to our humble abode?” he asks, as Laurel takes the cake into the kitchen.

“Thought I’d make good on all our promises to have dinner.”

“You’re not kidding,” he says as we walk down the short corridor. Their home has somehow become even cosier since the last time I saw it, and they both look absolutely dizzy with love for each other. It’s nice to see something so normal after everything of the past few weeks.

“Take a seat. You haven’t eaten yet?”

“No.”

“Good. We’ll sit and catch up.”

It sounds like a great evening to me, and it proves to be the case. We eat and laugh and it’s like it always has been. I ask about how married life is going and they’re all smiles, and they ask me about the Justice Building job and sympathise when I pull a face.

“Dreary,” I say. “That’s the only word I can think of.”

Conversation of course drifts towards my job at the mansion.

“What’s the house like?” Laurel asks. “Do they have lots of servants?”

“How many paintings are you getting paid for? Does the Mayor talk about the other districts?” Mitch questions.

I answer what I can, happy to indulge them. I completely understand where they’re coming from, having grown up wondering about the Undersees, the mansion, the Mayor’s work. It was often shrouded in mystery, and now I’m in the house multiple days a week, painting its inhabitants.

“I’ve been invited to a gala next Friday,” I say, and Mitch’s eyebrows shoot up his forehead.

“A _gala_?” he asks, disbelief heavy in his tone. “What are you going to do? Serve the cake?”

It’s what I would have assumed in any other circumstance.

“No, I’m actually a guest,” I say, laughing slightly. I decide to leave out the details that the Mayor expects me to court his daughter.

“Are you looking forward to it?” Laurel asks.

“I don’t know,” I shrug. “Nervous, I guess. It’s not like I’m used to formal events.”

“I bet Madge is,” Laurel says, leaning into Mitch’s side. “She’s probably gone to a million already.”

“Don’t make us look bad in front of his guests,” Mitch teases me, and I groan.

“They already think we’re the worst district. I don’t know how much I can do.”

“This one has all kinds of theories about the mansion,” Laurel tells me, patting her husband fondly on the arm.

“It’s a haunted house,” says Mitch, half defensive, half deadly serious. He pokes his fork around his plate. “There’s a reason we dared each other to stand by the gate at night when we were kids.”

“He thinks something strange is going on there,” Laurel says, rolling her eyes.

“Well, it’s a big place,” I say. “And it’s quiet too. I’ve never been there late at night but I guess it would be a little spooky.”

“Mrs Undersee roaming the halls,” Mitch says. “Punishing her husband for marrying Everdeen.”

I look down at my plate. Mitch apologises, though I know he doesn’t mean anything by it.

“How is she?” Laurel asks softly. “People have only just stopped talking about it."

“She’s alright,” I say. “She and Madge are close.”

Mitch leans back in his chair. “I suppose they’d have to be. Do you get on with them both?”

“I knew Madge before. And Katniss and I get on well. It’s different but we’re friends.”

He eyes me briefly. I wonder if he can tell that something has changed. That I’m no longer pining from afar, that Katniss and I are no longer strangers, and no longer just friends, either.

…

Early the next morning, there’s a knock at my door. Gale Hawthorne, out trading before a shift in the mines. I purchase two squirrels from him and grab Katniss’ letter and hand it to him when he makes to leave.

“Thanks,” he says, turning the soft envelope over in his hands. His jaw works as he looks back to me. “How is she?”

“She’s okay,” I tell him, a white lie. It’s not my place to tell him about what the Mayor does to her, their fraught relationship. I’m also not about to tell him what’s gone on between us, because I’m pretty certain I’d end up with two black eyes for my troubles. “I know she misses you all.”

Gale nods. He pockets the letter. “When you see her, tell her we miss her too.”

“Of course.”

He glances down towards the street. “She mention anything about the mines?” he asks, and I furrow my brow.

“No,” I say. “Did you expect her to?”

“No. I was just wondering how far the news had spread,” he flashes me a brief, tight-lipped smile, and then hurries down the steps before I can say anything else.

Thirty minutes later, I head to the tailor, knowing that my usual clothing isn’t going to be enough for the Mayor and his guests. I have no clue who he’s invited, but I don’t want to stand out any more than I undoubtedly will. I can’t afford a full suit, so I purchase a new jacket instead and some polish for my nicest shoes.

After taking my measurements, the tailor rings me up.

“It’ll be done by Wednesday,” he tells me as I hand over the coins. The jacket only needs minor adjustments but as the only tailor in the Quarters, he has a long list of customers.

“Thank you,” I say, grateful, and he shoots me a look. Something disdainful, mixed in with annoyance. I blink at him, surprised.

“Mr Mellark,” he says.

“Yes?” I answer.

“You work with Mayor Undersee.”

I nod, already conscious of where this conversation is going.

“I was hoping you could discuss with him why payments are not going through,” he says evenly. “I’m not the only Merchant who’s being effected. Something is going wrong with the paperwork, I don’t know what, but we’re hardly able to buy the materials we need.”

I think of Gale, hunting even prior to his ten-hour shift underground. I suppose that he hasn’t been getting paid at the mines either. Perhaps that’s what he meant about whether Katniss had heard ‘the news’.

“I can look into it, see if there’s a reason,” I say.”

“I’m assured you can use your _influence_ to get things moving,” the tailor says. I narrow my eyes.

“I have no influence over proceedings,” I say evenly.

The tailor shuts the register with a clatter and huffs. “Have a good day, Mr Mellark,” he says, already turning away.

I’m troubled by the interaction all day. I knew people were distrustful of my being a clerk, but I can’t see why they would treat me like this when the majority of them have known me my whole life. We’re not a big district and everyone knows everything about each other and I’m just the baker’s son. I have no more of an allegiance to the Mayor or the Capitol than anyone else.

The day is dry and overcast but still hot. I’m stuck indoors the entire time, listening to the silence of the mansion, and the tiny details on the painting become as monotonous and time-consuming as the paperwork I deal with at the office.

I don’t see Katniss, either, which doesn’t help. I want to ask her what’s going on, or at least try and figure out why she would kiss me, why she would say she wanted me in these circumstances. I’m sure she wouldn’t have the answers, but I’m certain her presence would sooth my worries at least a little.

I talk to Madge in the corridor for a while before I leave.

“I’m sorry about the gala,” she says, brows pulling together.

“Madge—” I say.

“I’m glad you’re going,” she interrupts. “Katniss and I both need someone our age to talk to. But I’m sorry you have to be here.”

“It’s alright,” I murmur, conscious of prying ears. I’m not even sure where the Mayor is. “I’m glad to help.”

She squeezes my hand. “Are you alright, Peeta?”

“Yeah,” I say. I shake my head as if the action will clear it. Madge furrows her brow.

“You and Katniss…” she whispers. I feel my heart speed up.

“What about us?” I ask, and that’s as much confirmation as she could want to hear.

“She seems happy,” Madge murmurs. “You do too. Less deer-in-headlights around her. I’m glad for you both.”

I can hardly believe what I’m hearing. Why is Madge supportive? She knows the dangers involved, the illegality. I haven’t even had a chance to discuss it with Katniss. It hasn’t even got a name yet.

I rub my forehead. “Did she say something?”

“No. But I can tell.” She opens the door for me. “You’re good for each other, Peeta.”

“You don’t think it’s a bad idea?”

“I don’t care what my father wants or thinks,” she says bitterly.

“That’s not my point,” I say. “Madge—aren’t you worried about what could happen?"

She bites her lip. She must be. “I’m going to help you,” she says. I step out onto the porch. “It’ll be alright, Peeta.”

I don’t know what to think. I feel like everyone is five steps ahead of me, as if they know things I don’t and are planning accordingly. I’m almost relieved that Madge has properly addressed what I have so far failed to, though she probably knew about it from the very beginning. But it also makes me concerned, because that means more danger and more trouble when this inevitably falls apart.

For all that worry, it’s something I know I will be unable to walk away from. I already feel the pull of _possibility_ tugging at my chest, a spool of wool wrapped through my ribs, tied to Katniss, wherever she is. I can’t help but dream about living in the fragile little bubble we’ve created. Or, should I say, she created, and which I simply allowed to engulf me.

I don’t know what she wants beyond her answer of simply wanting me. Surely I can’t be enough to justify what she’s putting at stake.

The next day is much the same. Rising early, painting for hours at the mansion—a task I would have been ecstatic about when I was younger, when the only materials I had was butcher paper and charcoal—and then home again.

Katniss is the only reprieve to it all.

On the Friday, I’m more than ready to go home after inhaling fumes for hours, but I get caught up when she insists on helping me empty out jars of water and clean paint out of my brushes, her hip bumping into mine, her fingers grazing my hands under the water. And when I look at her, she lifts an eyebrow and smiles, as if to ask if I’m going to do anything about it.

And I do. With my soaked hands I grab her, my grip tight as I kiss her. She moans into my mouth, making my head spin, and leans back against the edge of the sink, wet fingers sinking into my hair.

We break apart when the sound of Tullia walking down the corridor with a tray of clattering teacups and dishes alerts us to the fact that we’re not alone and that perhaps the scullery isn’t the best place for keeping this secret. Katniss smirks as I try to pull my shirt down over the front of my pants.

“You’re enjoying this too much,” I tell her when I make to leave a little while later. She smiles, eyes dark.

“Don’t pretend like you aren’t,” she whispers.

On the walk home, I pop into the bakery. I quickly get roped into prep work, finding myself strangely soothed to return to the same tasks that I did for so many years while I lived here.

“Peet!” Rye greets me once the storefront is closed up for the day. “Thought you were too good for us!”

I flick flour at him. It’s like old times.

We chat and work and Damson heats some leftovers upstairs while I help Rye shovel trays of bread above the ovens to help them rise, ready for baking. Then we all go upstairs for food and conversation. I hadn’t realised how much I missed it.

After the meal is finished, Rye pops downstairs to check on the fires, and I help Damson wash the dishes. When Rye comes back, I tell them about the gala.

“I remember watching the Mayor’s guests arriving on the train,” Damson says. “I had no idea who they were but they did look strange in all their fancy outfits. I think they were angry at the coal dust for ruining their shoes.”

“Are you wearing feathers?” asks Rye, obviously thinking about the Escort a few years ago. “Or perhaps a giant floppy hat?”

I snort. “No. I got a new jacket. And I’m shining my shoes. That’s it.”

A little while later, I head home because the two of them go to bed early as all bakers must do. Damson walks me to the door, wishing me luck for tomorrow night.

“If the Escort is there, find out how much she hates Haymitch Abernathy, will you?” she asks as I make to leave. I kiss her on the cheek and she leans out over the threshold and lowers her voice. “I think they’re secretly fucking but no one agrees with me.”

I stare at her in bafflement, trying to pair together the uptight Effie Trinket with the sloppy drunk Haymitch Abernathy. Water and oil personified.

“I’ll try to slip the question into polite conversation,” I say, and she laughs, wishing me goodnight.

...

The weekend passes quietly. I hole myself up in my office on the Saturday and try to figure out why so many people have been having issues with loans and applications, but struggle to find many answers, instead stumbling across endless redacted documents.

It rains all day, catching everyone by surprise given the good summer weather we’ve been having even into the beginning of September. I walk home that evening with my jacket over my head and still get drenched, though I don’t mind it too much, given that it’s still so warm out. The streets quickly get muddy, though, flooding easily over the parched earth.

On the Sunday, I spent the day cooped up in my apartment. It’s muggy outside because of the rain and I’m frankly exhausted, so I take a day to myself. I sketch, bake, and relax. By the mid-afternoon, I have the door propped open to try and let some fresh air in, and that’s why I hear the shouting.

Going out onto the steps, I squint across the rooftops to try and ascertain where it’s coming from. Down below in the side street, a young boy runs past.

“Hey!” I call. “What’s going on?”

The boy doesn’t stop as he yells back, “The train’s arrived!”

It’s all I need to know. Supplies have been running low because the last one never showed. This isn’t an uncommon occurrence, and most have the wherewithal to keep a little stock of items ready for when we’re left stranded. But it always means that when it finally _does_ arrive, people scramble for it. There’s almost always some trouble, with people fighting to get items first, especially those which will be bought up quickly.

I grab my boots and lock up my apartment, and run down to the bakery. Damson is there, shifting things around in the cellar.

“Hey, where’re the others?” I ask at the doorway, a little out of breath.

“Rye’s down at the station with Fen and your dad. I’m just making some space and then I’ll be there too.”

“I’ll walk down with you,” I offer. With my help, we drag a crate off to the side, making room for whatever supplies they ordered in from District 9. They have hardly anything left, and I know they must have been getting nervous when the delay got longer and longer.

Damson locks the bakery up and then we hurry down to the station.

“Gods,” she says when we’re about three streets away, watching someone rush past with a filled cart. We can already hear the sound of a crowd of bartering people. It never fails to make me angry that the people of Twelve have been reduced to this just to get enough food, and it makes me uneasy to see so many people pushing and shoving, with Peacekeepers milling around with their hands resting on their guns.

Rye is signing off on the bakery order when we arrive, and then it’s just about teamwork and speed. It was a task I helped out with from the moment I could walk, hauling huge sacks of grain, flour, and more from the train to our cellar. I used to love it, seeing boxes of sugar stacked high, gazing in amazement at all the information printed on the side of the packages.

 _Made in Panem_ , it would read, as if it would be made anywhere else. There would be details about the source district and which factory in particular. I used to like to imagine who had grown and gathered the product, who had milled it, who had packaged it. And, obviously, I liked to see all the ingredients, and marvel at what we could make with them.

While I’m not as enraptured by that now, it’s a nostalgic activity. To be working with my brothers again, even if it’s Rye telling us what to do and not dad. We work seamlessly, and even though it’s hard, sweaty work, we manage to load everything into the bakery in just under an hour.

“Phew!” Damson says, slumping down in the kitchen when the last sack of flour is set down. She’s sweating as much as we are.

“Your arms are going to ache in the morning,” Rye says, rubbing her shoulders, and she groans.

“I used to wonder how you all did it,” she grimaces. “I still don’t understand it.”

“Child labour is a marvellous thing,” my father comments, and Rye throws a dishtowel at him.

I spend the rest of the day with them all, chatting about the train. Everyone is glad for its arrival, but anxious about the issues with payments.

“Have you heard anything about it, Peeta?” asks Fen.

“Not really,” I say, furrowing my brow, and it’s the truth. There’s been very little about it at the Justice Building. “I was looking into it the other day but can’t find any real answers.”

I don’t tell them that there’s probably nothing I can do, nor do I mention the incidents with Cray and the Mayor, the missing numbers, the odd patterns in documents. I suspect the Mayor has been meddling, making things worse, but I can’t start that kind of rumour without concrete proof.

Eventually curfew begins to loom so we say our goodbyes and leave Rye and Damson to make preparations for tomorrow. I walk with my father for a bit, catching up on each other.

“How’s the apartment?” he asks.

“Good. Hot. But there’s a draft that’ll be killer in the winter months.”

“And the job?”

“Boring,” I say. “I miss the bakery.”

“I’m sorry Rye had to inherit it.”

I smile. “I know you are,” I say, only half-joking. “But he hasn’t burnt it down yet.”

“There’s always a chance with that boy,” he sighs. “And how about your work with the Mayor? It must be what—two months since you started?”

“It’s good,” I shrug, hands going into my pockets. “I’m getting close to finishing all the paintings. The Mayor wants to display them at this gala he’s having on Friday.”

“Damson mentioned you’d been invited.”

“Surprisingly.”

“How’re you finding it, the mansion? The Mayor’s family.”

My father was good friends with Madge’s mother and aunt, long ago. Sometimes it’s easy to forget they all grew up with each other in the same way that I grew up with Katniss or Madge.

“It’s nice to be able to paint,” I say, leaving out the fact that painting the Mayor and Katniss was like pulling my hair out strand by strand. “But the house is big. Very quiet. I feel sorry for Madge.”

My father nods solemnly. One day I should ask him about the first Mrs Undersee, and about her sister, Maysilee.

“And the Mayor is…” I trail off. How to find the words.

“Yes,” my father says. “He is. How is Madge? And Katniss?”

“Fine. Things are… difficult. Getting better. But it’s difficult.”

“They’re both lovely young women.”

“Yes.”

My father hums, not looking at me but down the moonlit street. “I hope you’re being careful, Peeta.”

I blink, waiting for him to say more.

“I know this is hard for you, but… some things are best left alone.”

I look down the street. I can’t look my father in the eye. I don’t want to tell him that he’s right, that what Katniss and I are doing is stupid and dangerous, nor admit that it’s like a dream, all of it, casting a spell over my sense of self-preservation.

At least now I know my time is running out. Before, I didn't know how the universe was against me until Katniss was stepping into my office to be wed. The portraits are almost complete and then it’ll be back to the Justice Building, peppered with occasional visits to see Madge and Katniss, if I'm lucky. Even then, that looks to cause an issue, because if I visit, the Mayor will only more firmly believe that I seek to court Madge.

“I’ll be fine, dad,” I eventually say.

“You’ve got a good head on you, son,” he replies, hands deep in his pockets. “But you have a weakness for her that I think will only end in hurt.”

I close my eyes. It already hurts. And I don’t know how to make it better.

…

I’m at the Justice Building on Monday, like usual. It’s a welcomed break but by mid-afternoon there’s a Peacekeeper letting themselves into my office to inform me that the Mayor requests my presence, and I’m forced to abandon my work to the other clerks, who all look at me with disdain.

“Mr Mellark,” says the Mayor from his armchair when I arrive. We’re in his office, a claustrophobic space, dark and dim, the spinning Capitol seal projected into the air above his desk.

“I am assured your work here will be done in time for the gala? I wish to display the portraits to my guests, show them what fine individuals we have in Twelve, amidst the rabble.”

I nod my head. “I believe they will be, sir. Maybe a little wet, still, but able to be presented.”

“I’ll have them mounted and we won’t have to worry about people touching them,” he says dismissively. “Be here early tomorrow."

“I will, sir,” I say. “Good day.”

He eyes me, holding a cigar in one hand and a paper in the other. I think for a moment about the letters I’ve been bringing in and out of his house, letters from Katniss to the family she is forbidden to see, to friends and loved ones. And the letters back, smuggled in, the only contact she really has from the outside world anymore, unless she’s accompanied by Madge or the Mayor or sneaking out.

I walk home feeling disjointed. He could have simply told all this to the Peacekeeper, have them to relay it to me, but instead he brings me out to the mansion to speak to me directly. A display of his power, surely. And, perhaps, if he suspects something is going on when I’m here, a threat. A warning.

I arrive the early the next day in the late-summer chill and hide away to finish the portraits. It’s solitary work, and Tullia informs me that no one else in the house is yet downstairs, so I’m utterly alone and in silence for a few hours. Soon, though, a bell rings, followed by footsteps and conversation in the hallway. I force myself to focus. I have a job to do. I can’t let myself be distracted.

Despite this initial isolation, I am unsurprised when the door creaks open and Katniss steps through. It’s not often that someone else disturbs me anymore. Madge sends her in with lunch on a tray or a jug of sweet tea, and then she asks me how things are going on, and then soon enough our hands are on each other. These moments, no matter how brief, are what I look forward to most.

Hours and hours of painting, silence but for the sound of brush against canvas. Flurries of colour exploding in front of my very eyes. And Katniss, appearing like a vision.

Although in the back of my mind there’s a little voice demanding to know what I’m doing, what I plan to do, and reminding me that this is a stupid idea, I can’t help myself. I’m lovesick. Katniss wants it, and so do I, and I’m more than happy to oblige.

It’s clandestine, stolen kisses. Hands held in the scullery. Her looks and touches. She must know what she’s doing to me, she must know that this is perhaps the most foolish thing we could do, but she doesn’t seem to want to stop it. She doesn’t even want to discuss it.

“I don’t want to think,” she gasps, hand gripping at my thigh as I kiss her. “I just want you.”

It’s intoxicating. I can feel myself going mad with it. I know I’m playing with fire, but as the flames dance closer, they only seem more beautiful.

Finally the gala arrives.

I leave the mansion early, kicked out by Tullia on the Mayor’s order, since I’m expected to come back looking fresh and not like I’ve spent the past four days inhaling more paint fumes than is good for me. I pick up my jacket from the tailor, thankfully avoiding the man himself and dealing with his son who is much more obliging, and then I’m home to shower, scrubbing paint from my hands and forearms. Then I dress, a shirt, worn waistcoat, the jacket, some pressed slacks, shined shoes, and soon enough I’m leaving for the mansion again.

Several Peacekeepers stand at the gate, armed, and I show them my ID and they let me in. The driveway has been lit by small, globular bulbs embedded into the grass and a handful of cars are gathered on the gravel. As I get closer to the building, I see people through the windows, hear music floating through the air. I smooth my shirt down, almost ready to bolt, but then the door opens.

Stillman, looking more formal than I’ve ever seen. He looks better than me.

He taps his wrist. I laugh.

“I’m not late!” I say as I climb the steps. When I reach the top, he’s already got a note written for me.

> _These guests are always early._

I consider it. Stillman and Tullia, mostly likely from the Capitol, and now serving the Mayor of the smallest and poorest district. I wonder if they know the people they’re serving tonight.

Indoors, the place has clearly been scrubbed and buffed, the marble floors shining, every chandelier lit and glittering. I have no coat to hand to Stillman so he guides me straight to the ballroom, a space I have never been in despite so many visits. It’s grand, tall and domed with paintings on the walls and large windows overlooking the grounds, lit up and bustling with activity. I feel my mouth drop open at the sight.

People of all shapes, sizes, colours—and I mean that literally. People with green skin, people with blue. People in all kinds of outfits, made of materials I’ve never seen before in my life, even on Capitol-mandated television. I can feel my eyes bugging out.

A quartet plays in the corner next to the silent piano but no one is dancing, just milling around and drinking. Peacekeepers are stationed at various points with guns on their hips, but none of the guests seem to notice.

I canvas the room looking for anyone I recognise, and spot district Escort Effie Trinket in a dress covered in butterflies, talking animatedly to a huddle of people. No doubt regaling tales of the district, which she knows so much better than they ever will, and that’s even with only two or three visits a year.

Then I see the Mayor, in deep conversation with a stout man, and approach. He’s dressed finely, hair combed over, and seems more comfortable here than he ever has on stage at the Reaping or in Twelve in general.

“Ah, Mr Mellark!” he says once he spots me. The group peer at me like I’m a live animal that’s invited itself in out of the forest. “Ladies and gentlemen, let me introduce you to perhaps the only protege this district has to offer. He’s had humble beginnings but is in fact a talented artist.”

“Good to meet you, sire,” says a tall, bony man to my left, words sibilant, slithering from this mouth.

“Happy to meet you all,” I respond, feeling like I’m in some strange fever dream.

“Will we be able to judge his prowess for ourselves?” asks an older woman with bright green hair scraped back from her forehead. “This district is yet to prove itself to me.”

A vein in the Mayor’s forehead bulges, but I can hardly believe it’s out of anger at his district being insulted. Instead, he’s most likely struggling to justify the inhabitants of Twelve to whoever these people are, while simultaneously distancing himself from the coal-covered masses.

“Absolutely,” he crows. “I commissioned a selection of works from him, which will be revealed before the night is over.”

The others peer at me, eyes narrowed, and I rock on my heels, unsure of what to say. Thankfully, the Mayor begins chattering on about something that recaptures their attention and I find it easy to slip away, roaming the edge of the room and looking at all the people gathered. Where are Katniss and Madge? Madge would certainly be a balm to this whole thing, and I’ve only been here fifteen minutes. I need her guidance, though I’m sure she’s coaching Katniss too. She will, after all, be the focus of the evening as the Mayor’s new wife, and a Seam girl at that.

I check the time, wondering if they’re going to make some grand entrance, but I don’t have much more opportunity to think about it, because then I spot her, standing close to the centre of the room, talking to a man whose back is turned to me.

She looks like… like the Victors do, after winning their Games. Like a god. Like the alluring creature in her portrait.

Dressed in black, her dress is form-fitting and sophisticated and when she turns, she glitters red and orange, like embers in a fire. Tiny jewels in her hair, on her dress. What looks demure at first is actually like nothing I’ve ever seen.

I want to go to her, drop to my knees and worship.

“Peeta!” Madge’s voice. I turn and she hurries towards me, holding up the skirts of her pink dress. “Thank god,” she gasps, hugging me tightly. “I was starting to think you’d never show.”

“I’m not late!” I exclaim, and she laughs. “You look lovely, Madge,” I tell her.

“And who knew you could be so handsome?” she quips. She loops her arm through mine. I wonder if she has any idea about what her father asked of me tonight.

“I need you to stay with me so Augustus stops trying to kiss my hand,” she mutters, looking around the room to wherever this mysterious assailant stands.

I stare at Katniss, a mouth to a flame. The music seems to muffle, the lights dim, everyone else fade away. Perhaps in another life I would walk to her and we’d spin and spin and spin until the sun rose.

“She looks beautiful, doesn’t she?” Madge says quietly. I nod. She squeezes my arm.

“Who’s that man she’s talking to?” I ask.

“Haymitch,” Madge says casually, but my eyebrows shoot up. Our sole surviving victor, a perpetual drunk who in all the years I’ve been alive has never seemed to have anything of value to say, is here. And in a suit.

“Wow,” I mumble.

“He’s not as bad as he acts on stage,” Madge clarifies. “He was good friends with my mother and my aunt. Katniss gets on very well with him.”

A surprising fact, given how stubborn and barbed they both seem to be. But they’re Seam-born, and perhaps find some level of comradeship over their strange ascensions to positions of relative notoriety.

Madge sighs. “There’s a handful of people here who I like and he is one of them, believe it or not.”

“Is there anyone I need to keep clear of? Your father already sort-of introduced me to some—they clearly think I’m some unique intelligent form of life.”

“You are,” Madge deadpans. She jabs me with her elbow. “Most of them won’t care who you are. Some are dignitaries from other districts, the rest are representatives from the Capitol. Not many people want to attend a gala in District 12 but some visit so they can tell others what it’s like.”

This truly is another world. That I always knew, but to be surrounded by people who live in districts cut off from my own, and even from the far-off Capitol, only confirms how different our world views are. They visit my home and think it a place of curiosities and peculiarities.

Madge sips a flute of champagne. She looks bored out of her mind already. “You would do quite well for yourself in the Capitol,” she says. “Make a lot of money.”

Isn’t that a thought. Going to the Capitol and painting the rich.

“Not for long,” I reply. “They seem to me awfully fickle.”

“You’d last a season, but you’d earn enough to live in the Victor’s Village for the rest of your life, and to pay for your children to do the same,” she says. I shake my head in disbelief.

A bell rings somewhere, the signal for everyone to move into the dining room.

“You’re sat next to me,” Madge says as we follow the others through a doorway. I keep my eye on Katniss, but she’s still talking with Haymitch.

The dining room is one I _have_ been in before. Smaller than the ballroom but no less grand, with a huge, rectangular table in the centre, decorated with gaudy centrepieces.

“Please take a seat!” the Mayor bellows, already standing at his chair. I follow Madge, where she darts past all the others to sit next to her father. On his other side, Katniss, gathering her skirts before she sits.

I will her to look up, and she does. I smile at her, an offer of solidarity, and she gives a dejected shrug of her shoulders.

Once everyone is seated, the Mayor gives a short speech. A lot of bluster all about how happy he is that everyone could attend, how he hopes the district will meet everyone’s expectations, and a reminder that the mansion is ‘a home away from home’.

Then he sits, and he says something to Katniss that I don’t catch, and then food is being brought out by servants I’ve never seen before.

The first course is a bright orange soup, with bread that can’t have come from the bakery. I talk quietly with Madge and with the man sat next to me, who Madge quickly explains is the brother of a transport official in the Capitol, now stationed out in District 6.

“District 12 is lucky to have so much green,” he tells me, his voice flat and dull. “We are mostly tracks and scrubland, so this is a delight to see.”

“We are lucky in that respect, yes,” I agree. “I assume you receive much of our coal.”

“Yes, for the trains,” he says. I want to ask why the ones delivering our supplies are never on time when the coal trains are so constantly prompt, but something in his eyes tells me I wouldn’t get a pleasant answer.

Then it’s the next course, some fatty meat dish that makes me yearn for one of Katniss’ lean squirrels or rabbits, and I talk with Madge, looking over at Katniss periodically and seeing every time that she’s either staring into the distance while the Mayor talks over her, or feigning interest when he talks at her.

With so many eyes on her, the Mayor’s young wife, I don’t try to communicate with her any further, not with the Mayor right there. The conversation around me seems to grow louder, the laughter and hissing of Capitol accents filling my head. All I want to is to talk to Katniss and we can hardly even look at each other. The only significant exchange we share is when she fakes a laugh at whatever the man next to her is saying, and then looks over at me and rolls her eyes, forcing me to hide my grin behind a glass of wine.

Dessert, the final course of the biggest meal I’ve ever had in my life, is a fruity, tangy cake, served with a custard so pale it’s almost white. I eat and when I’m full I push my plate away. For the remainder of the course, I listen to Madge talking to the officer beside me, commenting when I feel I have something even half worthwhile to add, and glancing at Katniss.

I intend to seek her out as soon as the meal is done, but the Mayor gets his claws on her and takes her to dance next door, doing a stiff waltz with the rest of his guests.

“Would you care to dance?” I ask Madge, and she nods, pulling me along.

We dance with all the others, keeping to ourselves. Madge is a pro at navigating this kind of scene, but I suppose you have to be. Every year she has three or four of these kinds of things, two being Games-related. Katniss on the other hand gets passed around like a rag doll, looking angrier and angrier each time.

As Madge and I dance, I think of her father’s request. I think of how tangled everything is becoming.

“Madge,” I say, needing to broach the subject before it’s too late. “You know your father asked me to court you, right?”

She fixes me with a look.

“Of course I do.”

I breathe a sigh of relief. “He asked me last week. I think he… I think he assumes that’s what’s going to happen.”

She hums. “I think that you think he suspects something between you and his darling young wife,” she clarifies. I feel myself pale and squeeze her hand tightly.

“Lower your voice,” I hiss. She lifts a brow. I swallow, my heart pounding in my chest. “Do you think he does? I can’t tell.”

“He’s suspicious of everyone, but I don’t think he actually believes you’re interested in Katniss. Not yet anyway.”

“I can’t—I can’t marry you, Madge,” I whisper, my voice almost drowned out by the music and the swish of Madge’s gown. “You’re a good friend,” I say. “But I think you agree that friendship is all that will come between us.”

She smiles softly. “I know that, Peeta.”

I furrow my brow. Why do all my fears have to rear their heads now, of all times?

“I have my own interests,” she says softly. “And I know you do too.”

“This is partly your fault,” I say. “You encouraged me to be here.”

She shrugs a shoulder. “I just made sure certain moves played out the way they needed to. Everything else fell into place.”

“Madge—” I say. “Don’t you worry?”

She fixes me with a quizzical look. “I think it’s dangerous. But you’re both smart. And I think that if we play my father’s game—” she gestures between the two of us, “—his attention will be diverted for long enough.”

“And how long is _long enough_?"

“I don’t know,” she sighs. “But this makes you happy, Peeta. I know it makes her happy too.”

“You think that make it worth all the trouble it could cause?”

She lifts her eyebrow at me, and I suddenly get the sense that she knows all my worries—my fears about what might happen if and when the truth gets out. My fears of who will suffer most for it. And yet I keep coming back.

“I think the things we truly value always come with risk.” She smiles at me, eyes sad. “Even if none of this had never happened, the only thing that would stay the same would’ve been you two. You would’ve found each other eventually.”

It’s a nice thought, perhaps, but one I cannot entertain. This is how things have gone. This, with myself in the Justice Building, Katniss in the mansion. The odds were against us from the start.

“I’ll send her over to you,” Madge says once the song has ended, and then she’s walking away, leaving me to stand alone.

I move to the side of the room, not wanting to be in the middle of the dance floor as people twirl around in varying stages of drunkenness, a kaleidoscope of every colour under the sun. Bright fuchsia suits, pale yellow ball gowns, huge blue headpieces. Madge vanishes into the blur, and I lean against the wall, trying to catch my breath. From the moment I got here, I’ve been overwhelmed. Thinking about getting caught, about the Mayor’s expectations, about the strangers who look at me and even the Undersees as spectacles to observe.

Madge waves me over and out of my reverie.

Katniss is waiting at the edge of the dance floor, a flute of champagne in hand. When she sees me, she downs it and sticks out her hand.

“Thank you, Madge,” she says, kissing Madge’s cheek.

“Have fun,” Madge calls after us and Katniss leads me onto the floor without another word.

I put my hand on her waist, she on my shoulder. Our other hands slot together easily.

“You remember what I taught you?” I ask, and she scoffs as the music starts up. “I’ve heard some complaints about stepping on people’s toes.”

“Stomping,” she clarifies. She has the glassy look of someone with alcohol in their system, but her grip is sturdy and her steps are sure.

“Ah,” I say, laughing lightly.

We spin around much like we did that day when Madge played the piano for us. It’s good to finally speak to her, to touch her, feel her, and in this public setting, it sends a rush of adrenaline through me that makes me dizzy.

“Are you okay?” I ask quietly.

“Everyone wants a word with ‘the second wife’, saying I must feel so lucky to have been ‘plucked from obscurity’.”

“They do seem to have a different outlook than the rest of us.”

Katniss looks up at me, eyes flaming. “I hate them,” she says. "I hate all of this."

“I can see that,” I reply. She grimaces and steps a little closer, until our chests are almost brushing. I inhale her scent, something earthy and floral. She smells like a spring day, when the forest begins to burst into green.

I twirl her under my arm, trying to make her laugh, or at least relax a little. Her skirts shoot out, a glittering array of embers.

“You look beautiful,” I murmur, only for her ears. She smiles.

“Thank you.” She looks at my chest, moves the hand on my shoulder so she can smooth the buttons on my waistcoat. “You look handsome, Peeta.”

“You sound surprised.”

“I’m not,” she says. “It’s the truth.”

I furrow my brow. I always knew Katniss was a proud, strong person, but I had no idea until this summer just how intense she can be. Under her gaze I feel like I’m melting into the floor. Her words make my head spin. Everything about her is like a drug.

Our reverie is interrupted by the Mayor calling everyone’s attention. An hour or two must have passed since supper, and I don’t know how much of it I spent dancing with Katniss.

“Ladies, gentlemen, guests—I would like to call your attention to the north wall, where we will tonight be able to reveal some excellent works of art by my faithful servant Peeta Mellark.”

On the wall above his head are the frames covered in fabric. He looks out over the gathered guests as a peal of applause echoes through, and, spotting me, waves me over. I do as he asks, weaving through the crowd.

“Mr Mellark revealed his skill to me completely by accident, but I am fortunate enough to have found this gem of talent within the people of District 12, and he lucky to have the opportunity to work with my family and meet all of you. You must agree,” he says, addressing me.

“Yes sir,” I say as evenly as I can. I look out over the crowd and spot Madge but Katniss is nowhere to be seen. My heart sinks a little, lopsided in my chest.

“Without further ado, we can reveal Mr Mellark’s efforts, celebrating my family and its new beginning.”

The Mayor pulls a string and the covers fall, revealing each portrait. I am proud of them, especially Katniss’. She looks out at the people gathered and demands their attention even as she questions their gaze.

There’s instant applause. I suppose I should feel delighted by the reaction, but instead I just feel uncomfortable. After hearing my home being dismissed and ridiculed all evening, their praise is not what I want.

“Congratulations, young man,” says the Mayor. “Excellent work.”

“Thank you sir,” I tell him. “The honour is all mine.”

He begins speaking with one of his guests, and I’m immediately pulled aside by others, all seeking to speak to me about my work, unable to tell how rotten I feel about the whole thing.

“Such curious talent to emerge from this place,” says one woman.

“You have great skill, young man. Tell me, have you studied in the Capitol?” asks a man.

I’m stiff in my replies. Thank you, thank you, and no, why would I ever be allowed to leave Twelve? It’s farcical, almost. Can they not see how they parrot each other?

I work my way back through the crowd to where I left Katniss. She’s gone. Madge is on the other side of the crowd with Effie, who is pointing at the portraits and wiping away a tear.

I look around, ignoring the guests attempting to get my attention, and then suddenly Haymitch Abernathy is looking me dead in the eye and jerking his head. _Come here_. I frown but walk over to the man. I’ve only ever seen him drunkenly stumbling across the Reaping stage or train platform or from the Hob and back to the Victor’s Village, arms laden with bottles of white liquor. To see him now, in a suit, looking like he would kill for a stronger drink and some silence—it’s enough to make me remember that he won the Games, once.

“Mr Abernathy, I—” I begin, but he quickly cuts me off, gruff and twitchy.

"You don't know what you're getting yourself into."

I flinch at his tone. “Excuse me?”

“Don’t act stupid, boy. I’m not treating you as such. You and the girl are doing a poor job of hiding whatever affair you are caught up in and this is a room filled with eyes and ears who would happily spin a rumour for their own benefit.”

He shakes his head like he’s disappointed in me.

“This is a dangerous game you’re playing,” he says, echoing Madge. I feel my heart pounding in my chest at his words.

“I’m not playing any games.”

He sneers. “That’s what I’m concerned about.”

In my fear I become angry. “Since when did you care about anything about yourself?”

His eyes flash in warning. “I know she is by no means innocent in all this,” he says. “But you’re both adults, capable of making better decisions.”

I lift my chin. “I fail to see how this is any of your business.”

He looms over me suddenly, dark and shadowy. “You think you know the danger you’re in—both of you—but you have no idea what this is, boy.”

I narrow my eyes. “What are you talking about?”

He scoffs.

“The two of them have been scheming from the start, trying to act like they can really change anything, and it didn’t take much for me to figure it out. And when the old man knows, you’ll regret everything. He’s not a fair man, kid.”

I know this detail about the Mayor, but somehow having Haymitch Abernathy, a man who’s seen horrors beyond anything I can imagine, say it to me makes it all the more chilling.

“You want to stop people getting hurt? You want her to be safe—alive?” he asks lowly.

I feel my pulse in my ears. “Always.”

“Then stop whatever it is you’re doing. Before you make a move you regret.”

He walks away, leaving me stunned. Somewhere the music has restarted, and people are milling about, some dancing, some still looking at my paintings. I want to pull them down from the wall.

I grab a glass of champagne and down it. I feel like this is all spinning out of control. I need Katniss. I need to tell her what’s been going on. Not only with the Mayor’s requests but the suspicions of others and now Haymitch’s warning. The knowledge I have about the Mayor and Head Peacekeeper Cray and the inklings about the trains. The little comments and revelations that have been buzzing through the air.

Standing here amidst finely-dressed officials, surrounded by glittering chandeliers and other facades of wealth this district does not truly have, it all compounds in my mind.

There’s a tap on my shoulder. I almost jump out of my skin.

Tullia bows her head, hands me a slip of paper.

> _Your presence is required._

Katniss. Finally.

I look at Tullia. She still has her head bowed. “Okay,” I say, the word feeling like a bubble in my mouth. I follow her out of the ballroom like a lost child pulled by a string.

I look over my shoulder and see Abernathy looking at me. He raises his glass into the air.

The rest of the house seems dim and quiet. Tullia moves like a ghost over the carpeted floors. I stumble after her. The faces of long-gone generations of Undersees watch me. A Peacekeeper at the end of one corridor is like a statue, lifeless but for the crackle of the radio beneath their helmet.

Tullia nods again when we reach the doorway to what must be Katniss’ quarters and then walks away. I want to call after her but I have a feeling she wouldn’t turn around if I did.

I stand at the door for a moment, listening to the far off hum of people talking and music playing, and then twist the handle.

The door opens onto a room with pale red walls and dark wooden floors. The space contains a chaise, tables, a fireplace, a basket of embroidery. I look around. So this is where Katniss has spent so much of her time.

I shut the door behind me with a quiet click. A door to the left opens, and she’s there.

“Katniss,” I say. “I need to talk to you.”

“Come help me,” she says lowly. She’s taken down her hair and it falls in lush waves around her shoulders.

I do as she says, following her through the doorway and into what turns out to be her bedroom. Painted a faint lilac, lit by lamps and a smaller fire. A huge bed, chests of drawers and wardrobes, a vanity. A view out over the forest edging the Undersee’s property.

“Shut the door,” she whispers. “Unzip me." I walk forward and she pulls her hair over her shoulder and turns her back on me. I feel the adrenaline from just a few moments ago, the fear and shock, seeping away in her presence. It’s like she simply reaches into my head and flips a switch.

I put my hands on her waist and then slide them up over her bodice. I undo the hook at the base of her neck and then ease the concealed zipper down. The material of her dress slackens and sags and she lets it fall, kicking the material aside. Underneath, nothing but long, long legs, a corset.

“And this,” she says. My fingers fumble over the ties, the seemingly endless ribbon, but eventually it’s gone, and she yanks it off, tossing the panels aside. I can see even in the low light the red marks on her hips from hours of wearing it.

I smooth my hands over her skin. She turns and looks at me, grey eyes molten.

“Katniss—” I say, but she’s pushing my jacket off me, unbuttoning the waistcoat, hands sliding up to pull my shirt from my pants and tug it away.

“Please,” she murmurs. “Just don’t talk. About anything.”

So I don’t. I just kiss her, and when she pulls me back onto the bed and digs her nails into my back and rolls her body against mine. Our mouths move against each other’s, wet and hot, Katniss sinking her teeth into my bottom lip.

I gasp, overcome, and brace myself over her and press kisses down the line of her jaw, down her neck, and over her chest. I slide a hand over her, feeling her breasts, the peaks of her nipples, the smooth concave of her stomach.

I suck a nipple into my mouth and tug on it with my teeth. Katniss tips her head back against the pillows and moans, the sound lulling me into a hazy dream.

“I wanted to touch you,” I admit. “When I was painting you. When he had his hands on you, when he danced with you.” I pull back, look her in the eye. “I was so angry, Katniss. I’m so angry.”

“I know,” she says, knees lifting so bracket me in the cradle of her thighs. “I know, Peeta. I am too.”

“Is that what this is?” I ask, some part of me desperate to know. “You’re angry at him so you want me?”

She reaches up for me, glowing in the dim light. She pulls me down and I kiss the juncture of her neck, wanting to bruise it, to prove that I was there. In my ear, she whispers, “I only want you.”

Her words make heat flood through me.

“Take off your pants,” she says, her husky voice not broaching any argument. As if I’d protest. I unbutton them, falling back as I hastily try to pull them off, and she laughs, tugging them off my feet, and as soon as I’m free, she straddles me, a vision, grinding her hips down into mine.

My mind whites out. Everything narrows down to this. This sight, which I’ll never be able to erase. Katniss, miles of tanned skin, dark hair falling about her shoulders, chest red and bitten, her hands screwed up on my stomach and my chest.

I grip her hips, enraptured, and encourage her to move.

“Oh, fuck, _fuck_ ,” she says, mouth parting, stuttering on the words, and she cries out, the sound soft and muffled, her body contracting.

“Did you—?” I ask, and she gasps, nodding. I flip us over so I’m above her again, where I can kiss her and push my hips against her, prolonging the pleasure that rushes through her body.

“Peeta—” she gasps, and I groan. “Come on,” she hisses. “Come on.”

“What?” I say, my mind feeling like it’s full of sand. Her hand reaches down to palm the front of my briefs—“Gods,” I say, and she laughs breathily, pulling her underwear down and kicking them away, pushing her hair away from her face and propping herself up on her elbows to watch me.

I strip down too, feeling more self-conscious than she evidently is, but the dark look in her eyes makes confidence spike through me.

“Do you have anything?”

“No need,” she murmurs. “I want this, Peeta, I’ve wanted you for so long. Now come on.”

I move over her, kissing her again, and she tugs on the short strands of hair at the base of my neck, securing me in place. I grasp my cock and slide it against her, feeling how wet she is, and she makes a whining sound, chest rising and falling with her breathing.

“Are you sure?” I ask, and she nods.

“Peeta, I’m not going to ask you again,” she says, and I comply, pushing forward into her heat, a slow form of torture, sinking in deeper until I’m flush against her. She wraps her thighs loosely around me and moans, eyes fluttering closed.

I choke out a curse. This is more than I ever dreamed it could be. Already it’s more than anything else I’ve experienced before. It’s like all the fantasies of my earlier years are coalescing with the events of the past few months, spinning in my mind.

I push up into her, arching my hips, and she releases a half-moan, half-laugh, her mouth twisted into a smile.

“Peeta, gods, _please_ ,” she says, and I drop down until we’re pressed together. I dip my hand down and rub at her clit and she squeaks.

“You like this?” I ask, bucking up into her.

“Ugh, _yes_ ,” she gasps. “Yes, yes, please.”

I thrust into her harder, and she arches into me. A desperate rhythm quickly falls over us, her hands digging into my sides, pulling at my flesh, and I grip her thigh. Katniss knows she can’t be too loud, but she bites her lip and moans and writhes against the bed and when she comes again, I curse, lightheaded.

“Come inside me,” she says when her eyes have stopped rolling back in her head. “Peeta, come on.”

Those words make me crazy. I thrust again and again and again and she lathes hot kisses over my jaw, and when I come, burying myself inside her, she holds me tight against her and moans.

For a moment, we’re sandwiched together, but then she pushes on my chest and I pull out, falling onto my back beside her, panting at the ceiling.

It’s just the sound of us breathing for a few minutes, and I look across at Katniss and am struck at the sheen of sweat on her skin, the wildness of her hair, how she reclines, eyes closed, on the rumpled sheets.

“Was that—?” I begin.

“Yeah,” she says. “That’s what I’ve been waiting for.”

I blink at her. “Waiting?”

She opens her eyes and glances my way. I see a flash of that stubborn, proud girl I saw before all of this, but on the face of a young woman who knows what she wants.

“Since the moment you got here,” she says. “You didn’t feel something between us?”

“I didn’t think anything would ever happen.”

She hums. “You’re the only thing that makes sense right now. Forgive me for indulging.”

“I’m not judging you.”

“You’re the last person who ever would, Peeta,” she sighs. "No matter what I do to you." She grabs a sheet and pulls it over her body. “Wait here,” she says, climbing off the bed. I do as she asks, only moving to pull my underwear back on and take a moment to try and figure out how the hell I got to this point. Just downstairs, I was panicking about Haymitch’s warning, and now?

Katniss comes back with a glass of water. I drink it gratefully, offering her half, which she downs, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. She sets the glass down and leans over to me, catching me watching her.

“You’re sweet,” she says.

“Have you been talking to Haymitch?” I ask. If she’s shocked by the question, she doesn’t show it.

“Don’t listen to him,” she muses. “He doesn’t understand.”

I blink at her. She smooths her palm over my cheek, and then twists around, reaching into the cabinet beside her bed and pulling out a letter. “Give this to my sister.”

I take it, silent like I’ve been struck dumb. Then she lays back on the bed, twirling a lock of hair around her finger.

“You better go, lover boy. Before the mayor gets suspicious about you sleeping with his wife.”

Her words aren’t filled with malice but there’s a sharpness there that makes my heart twinge.

“Katniss,” I say. “What are we doing?”

She eyes me, sheets pulled up around her in a way that’s almost more explicit than if she we completely uncovered.

“Tick-tock,” she says, tapping her wrist.

Out in the corridor, I smooth down my hair the best I can. I must look suspicious. Surely everyone will be able to tell.

I hurry down the staircase to the foyer. The night seems to be winding down at the same time as it begins to spiral out of control.

Madge appears out of nowhere. “Gods, Peeta,” she says, eyes wide. “Come on.”

I follow her into the ballroom, where the Mayor is saying farewell to some guests.

“I thought you’d gone home,” he says upon seeing me.

“I was just talking with Peeta on the veranda,” Madge lies. “But it’s about time you head home, isn’t it?”

I nod. “I’m afraid so. This has been a most magnificent night. Thank you for inviting me.”

The Mayor looks between me and Madge, swaying slightly.

“Well, I think the paintings went down well. Good work, Mr Mellark.”

I take his proffered hand and shake it. “Thank you, sir.”

“I’m going to walk Peeta to the gate,” Madge says, and she hooks her arm through mine and leads me away.

We walk slowly and in silence down the driveway, stepping aside at one point to let a car pass by. At the gate she squeezes my hand.

“You’re not the only one who wishes things were different,” she says softly. Humming insects fill the air around us, competing with the lazy strumming of the quartet inside the mansion.

“I know,” I grimace, feeling a painful ache in my chest.

Madge says nothing, but her gaze grows distant for a moment, brow creasing as she thinks. Then she looks back at me and her eyes clear.

“Goodnight, Peeta,” she says. "Be careful."

“Goodnight,” I echo, and then she’s hurrying back up the driveway, leaving me alone in the dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Header pic is Heinrich August George Schiøtt's 'Portrait of Sisters Malvina Ann Louise and Hilda Sophie Charlotte Reventlow'.
> 
> saturnblushes on tumblr and pinterest


	9. a city sorrow built

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a smutty chapter, which quickly descends into totalitarian governmental practices.

I wake the morning after wondering if the day previous was a dream. A strange vision of swirling dresses, glittering chandeliers, lilting music, and Katniss, a girl on fire. To say that I don’t relive that evening, the hidden, sudden pleasure of it all, is a lie.

It makes my head spin, to remember it. If I had told myself even five years ago that I’d ever get to be with Katniss like this, that she would be the one to seduce me, I never would have believed it. I’ve always been under her spell, unable to pull away from her. But that was always just a thought, never a possibility, because I never saw a world where she would pay me any heed.

And now she has, and it’s under circumstances I never expected. But it’s the way things are, and we cannot change that. So if she wants me, who am I to deny her?

I may not be able to name it but like any burgeoning _something_ I want to talk about what we are in the process of becoming. And yet to do so would be to openly admit to what I’m doing. What _we’re_ doing. Just as I never expected to foster a relationship with Katniss that would come to this, I never expected to be running around with a married woman, either.

So I say nothing. I visit Mitch and he asks me about girls and I dismiss him, saying I’m too busy at the moment. I spend time with my family, and avoid questions about my personal life, redirecting the attention to their own.

Gale comes to trade at the weekend, and I give him Katniss’ letter.

“From Prim,” I say, and he nods, sliding the envelope out of sight.

“How is she?” he asks.

“Good,” I tell him. I wonder if he can tell that something has changed between Katniss and me. If he suspects. “She’s good. She talks about you and your family a lot.”

He nods, smiling faintly. “Yeah, we miss her. How often do you see her now?”

“Not as much as I used to. The portraits are done so I’m only there as Madge’s guest now.”

“Right,” Gale says. His mouth quirks into a brief smile. “Well. Thanks for looking out for her.”

“You don’t have to thank me,” I mumble, looking over my shoulder at the sound of someone coming up the cellar steps. “I would have done it anyway.”

Something crosses his face then. He exhales a short laugh, looking down the street. “I’ll see you around, Mellark.”

“See you around,” I echo, brow furrowed. I watch until he turns the corner at the end of the street and then duck back inside.

…

A week passes with no opportunity or invite to visit the mansion and I begin to wonder if this is what things will be like from now on. I have no real reason to be there with the portraits done, and my days are instead to be filled with work at the Justice Building and visits to the bakery and to see friends. Everything seems to be moving on around me but I feel tethered to the mansion, to Katniss. Knowing that she’s behind those gates, somewhere in that huge, aging building—my thoughts are filled with her.

I dream about her, about waking up and finding her there beside me. I think I see her from my office window, walking in the Quarters, but it’s never her. I wonder if the occupation of my mind is a punishment for crossing the unspoken line by sleeping with Katniss. She’s a married woman, and to the Mayor no less, and I have no business touching her, kissing her, or even _looking_ at her the way I do. But she returns all of it and I can’t bring myself to push her away. When I try to question it, she brushes past it. I suppose I’m not the only one trying to inhabit some in between world where the two of us can exist as we want.

I’m about to go there myself under the guise of visiting Madge—the Mayor would perhaps believe nothing was awry if he thought I was courting his daughter—when there’s a knock at my office door and Mrs Wellester passes me an embossed envelope, one that I could recognise from touch alone by this point.

I rip it open the moment my doors shuts, forgetting about the piles of paperwork on my desk, and scan over the cursive _P_ printed neatly over the outside of the folded paper. Then I unfold it, smooth it out, and read.

> _Peeta. I’m having a birthday lunch on the sixteenth. You’re very welcome to come. – M._

And that’s it. Three lines. No mention of Katniss. But it’s enough to lift my mood considerably.

The sixteenth is only three days away, so I don’t have to wait long. I wonder who else will be there, what this lunch will entail, and how long I will get with Katniss. Even to just be able to look at her would be enough.

Sure enough, the day swings by and I arrive at the mansion with a gift of flowers. Stillman answers the door once I’ve been let in through the gate, and he smiles warmly at me, guiding me out through the house to the lawn at the back. It might be mid-September, but it’s still warm enough for lunch outside and an afternoon spent relaxing in the sun.

It’s the kind of sunlight that’s white bright, blinding almost, making my eyes spot whenever I move indoors or outdoors. There’s the bite of cooler weather, too, cutting through on the slight breeze, warning us that this good weather will soon pass.

I thank Stillman and he heads back into the house. I walk towards where a table has been set out, positioned closer to the house to enjoy the sunlight trapped there and to shelter from the wind should it pick up.

“Peeta!” Madge calls, waving me over, and I wish her happy birthday, hugging her, presenting her with the flowers. “I’m so happy you could come,” she says, smiling wide

She introduces me to her guests. I recognise them all, but I’d never assume they had any connections to the Undersees. They’re all a few years younger so I didn’t run in similar circles, but I’m quick to learn who is a distant relative of some kind and who is the child of the mine owner or the station controller. They all seem nice and it’s easy to talk to them all, but it’s odd to see other people here. It might be a small group, but after so long being at the mansion with only one or two others, the half-dozen additions make the place seem busy.

I spot Katniss sat talking to the mine owner’s son, and walk over to say hello and introduce myself.

“I know who you are,” says the son. “You don’t work at the bakery anymore, do you?”

“No,” I say. “I’m at the Justice Building now.”

“How do you find it?”

“I can’t complain.”

“And how do you know the Undersees?”

“Peeta was brought it to paint our portraits,” Katniss says pleasantly. I wonder for a moment if she feels strange to be talking to people around her age, knowing that they all now associate her with being the Mayor’s wife.

“I didn’t know you could paint.”

“It’s not something I talk much about,” I shrug, and the boy nods, impressed, before getting up to speak to Madge.

“He’s dry as a board,” Katniss whispers the moment he’s gone, and I laugh. She grimaces. “I don’t like forced interactions.”

“You would have preferred no guests?”

“Yes,” she says. “Yes I would have.”

She looks at me and sighs. She pats my hand but isn’t foolish enough to go any further, not with company present. I assume the Mayor is somewhere.

“It’s nice to see you,” she murmurs. I almost laugh, because it really is.

“It’s been too long,” I say. “Especially after that night.”

“Have you thought of me?” she counters, so boldly it makes my face go red. She lifts her eyebrows as if in challenge, and then Madge is calling people over to sit down so we can eat.

Lunch is a pleasant affair, consisting of fresh sandwiches, soup, and sweet desserts served on little platters. Tullia and Stillman dart in and out, just able to handle the guests with just the two of them, a stark difference to the gala. The Mayor appears halfway through to toast to Madge’s birthday, and then goes back inside again.

“He’s got a lot of work to do,” Katniss explains, and it’s not difficult to spy the tension in her voice. “Issues with paperwork.”

We thankfully don’t talk of the man again over lunch, nor afterwards, when Madge brings out stakes and mallets and a few balls and announces a game of croquet.

“They love it in the Capitol,” she says after explaining the rules. It sounds awfully old-fashioned to me, but is simple enough.

We spread out and the game begins, and it is surprisingly fun. Tullia brings out pitchers of fruit punch that definitely have a touch of liquor in them, and soon enough some people are wondering through the flower garden, others sit around chatting, while the remaining lot continue to play.

Katniss has the knack for it, accurate in her hits, but I find myself failing miserably, and eventually sitting aside to regain some of my dignity. A birthday cake—from the bakery, no less, and iced startlingly well given that Damson doesn’t ice and Rye is certainly a work in progress—is carried out and we all sing, and then we all have a slice. It’s a delicacy, even for me, and everyone savours it.

By three p.m., people begin drifting out, and I’m glad. When the last two finally leave, I breathe an audible sigh of relief for it to just be me, Madge, and Katniss. All I want is to have some peace and quiet. All I want is to be able to talk to Katniss without fearing what others will think, what they will whisper about.

We tidy away the dishes on the table despite Tullia and Stillman’s protests, and then Madge announces that we’re going to swim in the pond while it’s still warm out and brokers no chances for anyone to decline, grabbing some towels and hurrying back outside.

We follow her past the flowers and the wall of droopy willow trees and down a grassy slope, coming upon a large pond dappled with sunlight. The water is covered in duckweed in places, lily pads in others.

“Wow,” I say, and Katniss glances over her shoulder with a smile.

At the water’s edge, Madge pulls off her dress and reveals a simple one-piece undergarment that flows out around her hips. She ties her curly hair up out of her face and then wades in without hesitation.

“Come on!” she laughs, sending duckweed rippling out around her.

“Are you coming in?” Katniss asks. She’s stripped down into a loose cotton smock already.

I look at her. I’m going to burn in the sun but I’m not about to say no to her. So I begin to unbutton my shirt as she steps into the water, sinking down. The smock billows up over the surface and she has to push it under, smiling at Madge who squeals at how cold it is.

I drop my shirt aside and unbutton my slacks, heart pounding. I kick them aside and gingerly step into the pond. It’s pebbly and muddy underfoot, and the water is cool but not bitter, refreshing after spending hours sat in the bright sunlight.

Submerging my shoulders, I shiver at the cold and then step further, marvelling at what a beautiful place this is, and unable to stop staring at Katniss as she dives in and swims like a fish. When she surfaces, her hair is flattened to her head, dark and shiny.

“The last time I swam like this was in the lake,” she murmurs, draping a string of weed over Madge’s head. Madge gasps, flinging it off in indignation, and then she splashes Katniss, laughing. It doesn’t take long for me to react in the same way, and we kick up the water like we’re children.

“The lake?” I ask when we’ve calmed down, and she nods, lying back, kicking up her feet until she floats. I’m amazed.

“In the woods,” she says, sounding wistful. “There’s a lake I always used to go to.”

“Well, Merchants don’t know how to swim,” Madge says. Then, jokily. “You should stop bragging, Katniss.”

Katniss just gapes. “You don’t know how to swim?”

“Why would I need to learn?” Madge says, which is a fair point. There’s nowhere to swim in Twelve, and even if there were, Merchant parents would much sooner tell their children to simply _not_ swim than try to teach them.

“Peeta?” Katniss asks, and I hold up my hands.

“I probably shouldn’t even be in this pond,” I say dryly, and she laughs.

After a while, we begin to feel the chill and climb out, wrapping ourselves in our towels until we dry off a little. Then Madge and I walk around the edge, spotting fish darting in between the submerged plants and birds hopping about in the trees above. When we’ve made a circuit, we join Katniss, who’s reclining in the sunlight against the grassy slope, watching us. Madge and Katniss string flowers together and place it on my head like a crown.

“Curly hair,” Madge muses, tugging at one of my rapidly-drying strands, and I smile. It’s idyllic, here. You could almost forget that we’re in District 12, that there are Peacekeepers crawling about and the Mayor skulking through the mansion. You could almost think that for a moment we were just three young people, enjoying a day in the dying sunlight.

I can hardly tear my eyes from Katniss. It’s as if my default is to look at her, the way the sunlight further browns her skin, the way her hair loses a slight wave as it dries, returning to its naturally straight state. Her smock dries piece by piece, and though it reminds me at first of her in a wedding gown, I force myself to ignore the image, and just gaze at how she glows instead, like something otherworldly.

I think I drift off at some point, warm and relaxed, and when I wake up a short while later, I catch the other two in deep, quiet conversation. When they realise I’m awake, they stop talking, looking at one another briefly before Madge stands, brushing grass from her legs.

“I’ll go and get some more punch,” she says, climbing up the slope and out of sight. There’s a moment where I stare after her as she vanishes behind the shrubbery and willow trees towards where the house sits, almost entirely obscured by the angle of the hill. And then I look back at Katniss, and she smiles at me, pupils blown out.

“What?” I ask, feeling a thrill ricochet through me and heat grow low in my belly. She reaches over and secures a hand on the back of my neck, pulling me in for a kiss. Our skin is damp and cool from the water. Her mouth feels like a naked flame.

I kiss her back. It’s hot and wet and slow and I want nothing more than to pull her on top of me right here in the dappled sunlight, but I’m also aware of how the house with its many windows is right there.

“Katniss,” I say, when my elbow begins to ache from digging into the grass. My other hand holds her at the small of her back, my fingers splayed over her spine.

“I know,” she murmurs, eyes hooded. “Just a minute more.”

Kissing her again feels like a gift. I’d forgotten how good it truly felt. The fantasies I conjured from memory when I was alone are nothing to how real this feels. When she palms me over my slowly-drying shorts I feel like I’m fourteen all over again, dreaming about this.

“Disgusting,” comes a voice, and I make to roll away, but Katniss just lazily removes her wandering hand and lifts her head.

It’s Madge coming down the slope, holding a tray of drinks. I feel myself turning red with embarrassment at the same time as I feel a wave of relief hit me. I put my hand over my chest, feeling my heart slamming against my ribcage.

“Gods, Madge,” I say, and she laughs as Katniss does.

“I scare you?” she asks, and Katniss smiles at me as if this is all a big joke and I’m the foolish one who fell for it. But I’m shocked by it all—by what I thought was the Mayor catching us rolling around on his lawn, by Madge seeing first-hand what I know she’s known about for a long time now, and by the fact that the two of them seem so blasé about it.

“I thought it was—” I start, but she passes me a drink and says, “It’s not.”

I sit up properly and brace my elbows on my thighs, taking a sip of the drink. It’s alcoholic and sweet. I stare out at the dark, rippling water of the pond and then look back at Madge and Katniss, who look at me with looks of amusement still teasing their features.

“Don’t laugh at me,” I say. I feel like I can’t catch up. One minute I was feeling the all-consuming fire of Katniss, and now I feel flayed and vulnerable.

“We’re not,” Katniss says, reaching out and putting her hand on my side. Her fingers are cold from holding her drink.

“You don’t—” I begin, addressing Madge. “You don’t find this… weird?”

“No,” she says, like it’s that simple.

“But she’s—”

“If you say that Katniss is technically my step-mother I’m going to help her drown you.”

The red from my ears travels down my neck. I stutter out a few syllables and then drag my hand down my face. “I just meant—don’t you feel like a third wheel? And don’t you _worry_?”

“Katniss told me what you were doing as soon as it started,” she shrugs. “And I’m not blind. I could tell even before then.”

“But—”

“That doesn’t mean I want to see you making out.”

“But your father will—”

“What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”

“I’m not sure he _doesn’t_ know.”

Katniss rubs her hand over my side in a soothing motion. “It’s alright, Peeta.”

“I’m pro-this. Whatever it is,” Madge says dryly. She gulps down more of her drink. After a few quite minutes of nothing but the sound of ice cubes clinking in our glasses, the trees above rustling, and birds tweeting in the sunlight, she clears her throat. “Go and get some more punch, would you?”

I squint at her and see that both she and Katniss have emptied their glasses.

“Okay,” I say, standing up. I feel dizzy, like the sun has gotten to my head.

“Go with him,” Madge says to Katniss, in a softer tone as if I’m not meant to hear. “I’m gonna stay out a bit longer.”

Katniss holds her glass and Madge’s, and I hold my own half-full one and follow her up the slope and across the grass and across the paving and into the house. Blotches splatter across my vision for a moment before popping as my eyes adjust to the relative gloom.

“Come on,” she says, and leads me further into the house. Our bare feet are soft against the shiny wood and marble flooring. The house is silent, that still, sunny silence of late summer.

She doesn’t turn left to go to the kitchen but pitches straight up the staircase instead. I hurry after her, wary for any signs of movement, and catch up to her at the door to her quarters.

“This is dangerous,” I whisper as she shuts the door. She sets down the glasses on the little table beside us and takes mine, drinking half and then holding it to my lips so I drink too.

“I need you to do this for me,” she says when I’m done, setting the glass with the others. “I need you to be on my side, Peeta. Please.”

She leans up on her toes and kisses me, soft, gentle. She tastes like punch. When I don’t kiss her back, she drops back onto her heels and pouts.

“I don’t love him. I never will. I can’t,” she says. My heart seizes in my chest.

“What does that _mean_?” I ask, and she just locks the door and smiles at me.

“It means I want you to kiss me like I know you want to.”

I hesitate again, though I can feel myself waning, and I know she can tell.

She pulls off the cotton smock, leaving her clad in only a pair of panties. I sway slightly, and she laughs at what must be a dumb expression on my face.

“You didn’t see enough of me in the weeks you stood painting my portrait?” she asks, and I grab her by the waist, pulling her to me.

“You were wearing a little more clothing then,” I murmur.

“From the way you were constantly undressing me with your eyes, I’d have thought the opposite,” she says, and I narrow my eyes. “Peeta, come on. You weren’t subtle about it. I know what it looks like when someone wants someone else. I didn’t mind it.”

“I guess not,” I admit, furrowing my brow. She grabs my hands and sets them on her breasts.

“Show me, then. Now that you have me.”

So I put away my worries, for the moment, wanting her more than anything else. We go to her bed and she kisses me, hands sliding over my shoulders. I hiss and she pulls back, ghosting her fingertips over where my skin is red and tender.

“Oh,” she hums. “Did you get burnt?”

“I always do,” I murmur, kissing over her collarbone. She palms me over my pants like she did earlier and it makes me gasp stuttering breaths into her mouth. Then she helps me push them down and spreads her thighs further. I rock into her, feeling her slick and hot against me.

“Fuck, Katniss,” I say drowsily and she groans, pushing me until I’m on my back. She braces one hand on my chest and sinks down onto me without much fanfare, barely giving me a moment to catch a breath. Then her other hand lands on my wrist, pinning it down on the sheets. I let myself be held flat, the image of her above me, powerful, beautiful, like a drug.

My free hand rests on her hips to guide her but she hardly needs to assistance, rocking herself over me with ease. I just watch her, watch the way her body tenses as she chases after her pleasure. I grip her ass with the hand she hasn’t held down and sink my fingers in, pulling her harder against me, and she cries out, throbbing around me.

“Are you close?” I groan and she squeaks, nodding. I push myself onto my elbows and suck one of her nipples in my mouth, worrying it with my teeth, and her eyelids flutter closed, body arching against mine as she comes. I can’t help but follow, engulfed by her smell, her taste.

She slumps over onto me, breathing hard, and after a moment, she climbs off and flops onto the sheets. We lay there in silence, catching our breath. I rub my hand over my face, scratching my stomach idly. Everything smells of sunshine and pond water and the faint scent of lavender from her bedsheets.

Outside, birds sing. It really is peaceful here, especially now, with her. But I think of how it must be when she’s alone, when she can’t leave here unless under the cover of darkness or disguised.

“You could leave,” I murmur, the words coming out of me before I can think better. I feel drugged, almost, burnt by the sun, dizzied by Katniss. Time moves like honey poured from a jar. “You can live with me. I could take care of you.”

She shakes her head. “If I leave, who will look after Prim?”

“She can come too. It would be crowded but better than this.”

A minute passes. Then she pushes herself up to look me in the eye.

“Prim is safe for now. She has enough to eat. She never has to worry. I’m not going to take that away from her.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“I know,” she says, lying back again. She pulls the sheets over herself and sighs.

“The Mayor is not who you think he is. Not as inept as he would have you believe. He’d ruin you Peeta, if you gave him reason to.”

“None of this is fair,” I whisper. I feel like I child when I say it.

“I didn’t expect it to be,” she answers. “But I have to protect my sister. Madge too.”

She reaches over the sheets and takes my hand in hers, playing with my fingers. I watch the movement, brow furrowed.

A loud knocking at the door to Katniss’ quarters is like a gunshot. I sit up and Katniss topples to her feet, yanking on her smock.

“Stay there,” she says, eyes wide. “Who is it?” she calls, stepping out into the adjacent room. I yank my clothes on, wondering how far the drop would be from the window and how quickly I’d be caught out for walking around in only a pair of shorts.

There’s another knock, this time in a clear pattern, and Katniss runs to the door, unlocking it and pulling open a sliver. I see Tullia standing there, looking harried. She signs something to Katniss, who nods.

“Thank you,” she says, and then she shuts the door again.

“He’s back from the Justice Building,” she says. “Quick.”

She takes me along the corridor and through a door I hadn’t even noticed, a tiny one blended into the wallpapered wall, and I find myself in a narrow corridor, clearly intended for use by the help but now dusty and unused. Katniss navigates the passage with ease and we race out to the kitchen.

Inside, Tullia is already there, with my shirt, socks, and shoes neatly folded. I pull them on as quickly as I can, thanking her for performing such a miracle.

Less than thirty seconds later, the kitchen door opens, and the Mayor stands there, looking irritable.

“Ah,” he says, eyeing all three of us. “I was wondering where you two had gotten to.”

“We just brought back these glasses,” Katniss says pleasantly. “Peeta is about to leave.”

Somehow our glasses are on the table, ready to be washed. I would gape at Tullia if the Mayor wasn’t here. Is everyone in this house contributing to the façade?

“Is Madge outside?” the Mayor asks.

“Yes, we left her by the pond,” Katniss says, and he nods. There’s a beat, and then he beckons me over.

“I’ll walk you out, Mr. Mellark.”

I glance at Katniss as I walk towards him, following him out the door. She leans against the countertop and watches me go, and the last I see of her is as Tullia puts a gentle hand on her forearm.

“I apologise for having to leave Madge’s party,” the Mayor says as we walk through the house towards the front door. “Duty calls.”

“Of course,” I say. “I think she had a good time.”

“She’d prefer to have no guests, but I made sure she invited others. She can be awfully solitary.”

We walk in silence for a beat, and then I say, “You truly have a lovely property, sir.”

“Yes. Not my doing. My grandfather owned the place, and it’s been more upkeep than anything else. They had a lot more time for outdoor leisure back then.”

We stop at the bottom of the steps.

“You can walk yourself to the gate,” he says, not a question. I nod.

“Yes sir. Thank you for today, it was lovely. And happy birthday to Madge.”

I chance a look over my shoulder when I reach the gate, finding the Mayor is out of sight. So I look up further and see, standing on the little balcony on the next floor, Katniss. I smile as the gates are opened by the Peacekeepers standing there, but when I look again, a second figure steps out behind her. The Mayor. They vanish inside and I’m left with her words echoing in my head.

_He’d ruin you Peeta, if you gave him reason to._

…

I needn’t worry about not being able to see her. Madge comes up with plenty of reasons.

“I told him we were courting,” she says when I ask about the situation the next time I’m at the mansion. “Katniss is like a chaperone.”

“So he doesn’t suspect anything?” I query. Ever since that day at the pond, I’ve felt more comfortable about directly referring to what’s going on, but knowing that Madge is allowing it to happen, enabling it even, I can’t help but think about how she too will be implicated when this fails to remain a secret.

“I don’t know about that. But he wants me married, so...”

After that, I find myself with plenty of moments alone with Katniss. I spy her a week later in her quarters. It’s raining outside, casting a dim glow into the room and making the air hum with the sound of raindrops hitting the glass.

“Madge said you’d be here,” I say, closing and locking the door behind me, not forgetting to check I haven’t been followed. Just seeing her settles some unsteady tension in my chest. Replacing it is desire, a low thing that makes my hands itch to touch her.

She’s sat on the edge of the desk, dressed in a finely-knitted dress and long socks that have fallen in wrinkles around her calves. Against her chest she holds a book, fingers in between the leaves, marking her place. It’s an old thing by the looks of it, the leather cracked and dulled with age, and I can’t help but wonder where she got it from since she said they were all behind lock and key. The glass doors even in her own private library secured.

“How did you get that?” I ask, and she looks at the shelves on the wall adjacent with bored disinterest.

“Picked the lock.”

I reach for the book and she hands it over. Some old text, from long before Panem. I stare at it, half-enraptured, half-shocked at the sight. The only books we’re allowed are Capitol-sanctioned ones. I’ve only ever held one other book, and that was a collection of children’s rhymes. But this is a _novel_. It’s a story. And it’s something I’d assumed would have been long destroyed, not sitting here, collecting dust.

“This is…” I trail off. It seems silly to say so, now that I have it in my grip and can see the letters printed on the yellowed pages.

“Treasonous?” she finishes. There’s a dangerous glint in her eye.

“You’re really that bored?” I ask, and her expression shifts. She seems restless, as if the change in the weather has unlocked something darker and more persistent in her head.

“What is it?” I ask, sensing that teasing is not the right move, that she has something on her mind.

“I—I saw something,” she whispers. “Something I shouldn’t have seen.”

I shake my head in confusion. “What are you talking about?”

She looks at me, clearly assessing whether she can tell me, if she should.

“I was talking to Isaac. He left the room for a moment. And I saw on his television that there was unrest in the other districts. Gale was right about it. The rumours.”

That’s not at all what I expected to hear.

“What are you talking about?” I ask. I think of the news of riots in other districts. Madge’s brief mention of the Mayor’s family in District 8.

She takes the book and goes to the shelves, prying open the glass door and sliding the book back in place.

“He won’t talk about it. I switched off the television before he could come back.” She walks back over to me, leans against the edge of the table, parting her thighs so I can step in between them. “Nothing I can do anything about while he’s here.”

I kiss her, not liking the troubled line in her brow. I open my mouth to ask more about it, because the idea of unrest, of something stirring—it’s not a good sign. The Capitol always quashes any activity of the sort, but it appears they haven’t been able to this time.

“And yes, I am,” Katniss says, before I can speak.

“What?”

She smiles at me, wicked. “Bored. I’m so very bored.”

She pulls me closer by my belt loops and I set my hands on her thighs, sliding them up until the edge of her dress lifts too. They slide higher and higher and it doesn’t take me long to realise that she’s not wearing anything underneath.

“Katniss,” I say into her mouth, and she palms me through my slacks before pushing me back and standing.

“Here,” she tells me, some kind of desperation on her face as she yanks my shirt out of my pants.

“In here?” I hiss. Her bedroom is just across the room. “What if someone walks in?” I ask.

“No one will,” she says, unbuckling the front of my pants. Then she turns around and I almost black out when she leans over the shiny mahogany desk and looks back at me. “Go on,” she says, eyes flashing. “Unless you want to keep talking about the Capitol and my husband.”

Something flares in my chest at her words and she grins. I lean over her and kiss the back of her neck. I just barely get my pants around my knees, belt buckle ringing, before I sink into her. She digs her nails into the desk and groans.

“You have to be quiet,” I say, though all I want to do is hear her moan and cry out. I begin to move, overcome with the selfish need to take what I want now that she’s offering it so plainly, but she moans again, too loud even with the sound of the rain, so I secure my hand over her mouth.

This doesn’t seem to make her quieter but at least it muffles the sound. I thrust into her, working up a steady pace, and feel the vibrations of her voice against my hand. Eventually I have to stop and remove it, needing to steady her hips with two hands and not one.

“Katniss,” I say, hushed, and she laughs.

“This is what he wanted,” she gasps, quieter at least. “An easy Seam girl. But I want you to have it, Peeta, _ugh,_ all of it.”

Her words are like electricity and I groan, thrusting my hips harder, following the pleasure spiking through me until I can’t hold back anymore, collapsing against her as I come, feeling her tighten around me.

“What was _that_?” I say, pulling out after a moment, and she goes into the bedroom on wobbly legs and comes back with a cloth to clean up with.

“I was bored,” she says, face flushed with exertion.

“So I’m entertainment for you?” I ask, and she presses a kiss to my cheek.

“The best kind.”

“You’re not some easy Seam girl,” I say once I’ve got my breath back and am mostly dressed again. She looks at me with a raised eyebrow as she buttons the front of her dress.

“I am with you,” she says. I feel my ears burn. “I never would have before—gone after anyone. I’d never met anyone who made me feel like I could ask for what I wanted and not be ashamed of it.”

I step closer, cupping her cheek in my hand. She looks tired, and I don’t like that.

“You shouldn’t ever be ashamed for going after what you want,” I say solemnly. “You’ve always sacrificed for others, Katniss. Always. Of course you deserve good things.”

She kisses my palm. “You’re too good with words,” she says, a smile biting at her mouth. “That makes you a dangerous man, Peeta Mellark.”

When I go to leave, I turn at the last moment, at the top of the steps, and look to where she leans against the door of her quarters, watching me go.

“Be careful, Peeta,” she calls, giving me no chance to ask _careful of what? Who?_ before she’s ducking back out of sight, leaving me to descend the staircase and leave the house. Outside, the grey clouds rolling in echo with thunder. The air grows thick and heavy.

…

It’s easy enough to slip into some modicum of a routine and after a month, once we’re fully into the swing of October and winter is fast approaching, I find myself at the mansion when the Mayor’s schedule requires him to be elsewhere. I deliver letters to and from Katniss. I work at the bakery. I slog through the day-to-day of the Justice Building. And yet I’m so wrapped up in Katniss that I don’t see what’s coming—what’s been growing over our heads this whole time. What I should have taken more notice of, especially when Katniss spoke of it so plainly.

It starts like this.

I’m walking to work one morning when there’s a commotion. I’m passing by the streets which hold the homes of most of the district’s Peacekeepers and hear yelling coming from just out of sight. I decide it’s not a good idea to interfere with Peacekeeper business and keep walking.

By the time I’m in the square, however, I know that something is up. Something is wrong. Peacekeepers are everywhere, erecting Capitol flags, standing by the Justice Building with guns in hand, a vague, threatening mass. The effect on the citizenry is palpable. At the Justice Building, I have to show my identification card and submit to a finger printing just to get through the door.

At the front desk, Mrs Wellester looks pale and tense.

“New Head keeper,” she says when I ask her what’s going on. “Cray is gone.”

It’s like she’s told me that the Games have been cancelled. It seems entirely impossible. If old Cray is gone, that means things will change. That means the Mayor might be in more trouble than he first thought. More trouble than he can hide.

“Who’s the replacement?” I ask.

“I’m not sure,” Mrs Wellester murmurs. “But I think we ought to be careful. Cross our ‘t’s’, etcetera.” She shoots me a meaningful look. Does she think I’ve been falsifying documents too? Or is every clerk in this damn place involved in some kind of illegality, even the smallest of kinds?

I go to my office and continue to work, but the idea of a new Peacekeeper is surprising. Cray was a predator but people could get away with most anything when he was in power. Katniss traded to Peacekeepers left, right, and centre, for years.

I watch throughout the day as they move around the Quarters, some by foot, some in huge armoured trucks, going from different residences and businesses. They erect whipping posts in the centre of the square, a chilling sight given that law breakers were previously only punished by time in the stocks or by fines. Whippings stopped perhaps a decade ago, and no one has been executed in as long as I can remember.

I hurry to the bakery on my lunchbreak, walking as quickly as I can without drawing attention myself. The streets crawl with Peacekeepers. People, Quarters and Seam alike, scurry away, shoulders hunched.

“Rye?” I say, bursting in through the kitchen door. Damson pops up from behind a stack of crates.

“Peeta, you scared me!” she exclaims, putting her hand to her chest. “Are you alright? Have you seen what’s going on?”

There’s something frazzled in her expression that tells me all I need to know.

“Have they already been through?” I ask, and she bites her lip, and then nods.

“This morning. Disrupted the early crowd. Demanded copies of our ledgers.”

I shake my head. “What on earth could they want?”

“They did the same at the cooper’s and the grocer’s. They’re checking everything and everyone. Rye got stopped on the street.”

My heart seizes in my chest at the prospect. “Why?”

“They told him it was random checks. Roughed him up a bit even after he showed them his ID card. He was only coming back from checking on your father.”

“Is he alright?” I ask, and she nods.

“He’s upstairs.”

“You’re okay?” I ask her, and she smiles, though her hands worry the dishrag she holds.

“I’m fine,” she says softly, and I kiss her cheek.

I dart up the staircase into the living quarters and call Rye’s name.

“Peet?” he says from the bedroom, and I walk down the short hallway until I find him. “Hey,” he greets. “Didn’t expect you today.”

“Damson told me what happened,” I say, eyeing him. “What the hell did they want?”

“Nothing, nothing,” he says, putting a stack of laundered shirts into a cupboard and closing the door. “They were doing it to everyone, not just me. I saw three miners being interrogated, and they emptied the grocer’s shelves of produce, kicked it over the street.”

“You’re okay?” I ask, and he nods, cuffing my around the head.

“I’m fine,” he says, but there’s an undeniable tightness in his eyes. “Are you? Did you know this was going to happen?”

“I heard… little pieces. The Mayor mentioned some issues. And Katniss—” I stop, too late. How do I explain that the Mayor’s wife informed me that there was unrest in the other districts just before we had sex in his own home?

Rye gives me a look. “You ought to be careful, little brother,” he says, putting his hand on the back of my neck. “I know you aren’t the only one doing things you probably shouldn’t. But I don’t want you to get hurt because you let your feelings get the better of you.”

“I won’t,” I say, and he presses his lips into a thin line.

“Especially now. Cray might have bypassed the Mayor’s vitriol. But he’s not here anymore. The new guy, Thread—I think he’s of a different kind.”

I think of Mayor Undersee, of his skimming money from what is allocated to keeping Twelve running. I wouldn’t expect he’d be too willing to draw attention to himself right now. But Rye’s correct. I have to be careful. Katniss has to be careful.

“How was dad?” I ask to change the subject.

“Fine. He’s still growing those potatoes. Go and see him soon, alright? He misses you. And if the new Head keeper decides to make curfews, I don’t want you to be caught out.”

I smile. Rye smiles back. It’s the smiles of people who know there are now whipping posts in the square, people who know something has irrevocably changed in just a few hours.

…

The following day, I learn more about Thread. About his rules, his obedience to the law. Without even needing to make an official announcement he’s made his presence well-known in the district.

Every clerk in the Justice Building receives a document reiterating district laws. I read through it and am stunned at how many things are technically illegal. Cray really did let things slide.

After my shift ends, I walk to the Seam. It’s hard to believe that it’s been less than thirty-six hours since Thread replaced Cray because the change in the district is so immense it looks like we’ve been under weeks of constant persecution. When I get to the Seam, I can smell smoke in the air, and have to jump out of the way when an armoured truck thunders past through the dirt.

I know I’m risking it, walking all this way, but a letter wouldn’t be quick enough.

I find the Hawthorne’s house with a lot of luck and climb up the steps to knock on the door. The place is tiny but well-looked after. Even if the paint is long-gone from the wooden slats, the steps have been recently repaired and there’s a pot of flowers on the windowsill.

There’s the sound of children inside and then footsteps and the door swings open.

“Mellark?” says Gale Hawthorne, eyes bugging almost comically out of his face as he leans forward to look up and down the street. “Do you have any idea how stupid it is to be here right now?”

His eyes dart up to my hair. He’s right, I stand out in the Seam, and it’s not a good idea to be wandering around the district, not right now.

“I had to talk to you,” I say. Past him, I see Freesia Hawthorne, bouncing a baby on her knee as the youngest Hawthorne siblings sit by the fire. “I had to warn you.”

“About what?” he asks, stepping out onto the porch with me and closing the door behind him. He shoves his hands in his pockets. “Is it Katniss?”

“No,” I say. “It’s about the new Head Peacekeeper.”

“Rotten bastard is what I’ve heard,” Gale glowers. I can imagine the miners, deep underground, cursing him and the Capitol.

“He’s prosecuting poachers,” I say. “He received a warrant to search the homes of any suspects this afternoon. He already barred one of my neighbours from selling scrap metal. I don’t think he’d take kindly to what you do.”

As I speak, I watch the other man’s face harden, freezing over like a pond. When I finish, he clears his throat.

“Right,” he says. “Thanks.”

“I just thought—you don’t want to get caught out.”

“No,” he says, but I can see his mind racing.

“Have you got—” I begin, and he shakes his head.

“Not on me. Me and Catnip always stored them in the woods. But there are others—I’ll have to warn them too.” He grimaces. “They’ll probably have the fence electrified before long.”

I don’t know what to say to that, because the fence being electrified or not has never really affected my day-to-day existence, but for Gale it’s a livelihood that he’s going to lose.

“Thanks, Mellark,” he says gruffly. “It was—good of you to come down here and let us know.”

“Of course,” I echo his tone. We shuffle awkwardly for a moment.

“Are your folks… are they alright?” he asks after a few aborted attempts.

“My brother got stopped, but that’s it.”

He nods. “Alright.”

He offers me his hand and I shake it. He briefly squeezes it, giving me a nod. I go to walk back down the steps to leave but turn at the bottom.

“Do you have a letter for Katniss?” I ask.

“No,” he says, voice low. “But—but when you see her, tell her we’re okay. That nothing’s changed. I don’t want her trying to sneak out, not now.”

“She’s the Mayor’s wife,” I say, and immediately I know how foolish and naïve that sounds.

“She’s Seam,” Gale grunts. “And the Mayor ain’t above this new law.”

…

I go to the mansion at Madge’s request, bringing with me a small fruitcake from the bakery. It’s more an excuse than anything, a reason to justify why I’m there. It still takes fifteen minutes to convince the Peacekeepers at the gates to let me through, with Stillman having to walk down and explain the best he can that I’m no threat to the Undersee family.

The tension from the town and the Seam has not dissipated in the mansion. If anything, it’s concentrated. I feel a pressure settle on my head the minute I step inside.

Madge and Katniss are in one of the drawing rooms, huddled by the window, watching the rain come down. We exchange some terse conversation, mostly the two of them asking me questions, given that neither of them have left the grounds in some time. Katniss snuck out to see her sister a week ago, but things were a lot different then.

This is proven when Madge goes to make some hot drinks and Katniss slides onto my lap. I feel well-attuned to her by now, and she me, but even as she bites down on my bottom lip, eyes blown dark, I can’t stop thinking about Thread, Mayor Undersee, the entire mess of it all.

Katniss herself said her husband would ruin me if he had the opportunity, and I know that if that opportunity did present itself, she’d be in serious trouble too. Thread would undoubtedly make an example of us both. Adultery is a punishable crime under Panem law. I’d likely be framed as the perpetrator, preying on the impressionable young wife of the Mayor.

As much as I want to kiss her, to distract her and myself with pleasure, I’m unable.

“Sorry,” I say, and she pushes her hand through my hair.

“It’s alright,” she murmurs. She sighs. “I keep thinking about it too. I want to bring Prim here but I don’t think he’d allow it.”

“I went to speak to Gale. Warned him about the poaching laws.”

“He’s okay?” she asks.

“He said everything incriminating was in the woods. That they were okay, that ‘nothing has changed’, that you shouldn’t try and sneak out.”

She nods. She must feel helpless, here. And how claustrophobic, to have locked herself in the mansion to provide food and money to Prim and the Hawthornes and yet be unable to assist when things like this happen. As if we could have predicted it.

She kisses me and then puts her nose in my neck and we just sit there. I inhale her, comforted by her presence, and I hope she feels the same way about me. I start to say something, perhaps ask her about what I can do to help, when there’s the sound of footsteps, heavier than Madge’s.

We spring apart immediately. I remain on the couch and Katniss darts away to the fire, stoking it with a poker.

The Mayor opens the door, one hand on the handle, and eyes us for a moment. Then Katniss says, “I didn’t know you were home!” and he seems to jolt.

“I’m looking for Madge,” he says.

“She’s just getting some hot chocolate,” Katniss tells him, and he nods.

“Don’t stay too late, Mr. Mellark,” he says after a moment. “A curfew is likely and I know you had trouble getting in through the gate.”

“Of course, sir,” I say. “Thank you.”

He lifts his chin and then vanishes. I feel my heart thundering in my throat.

“That was close,” I say, staring at the now-closed door. Katniss huffs a laugh.

“Yeah, it was,” she says, mouth pulling up into a slanted smile.

“I’m serious,” I snap, perhaps harsher than necessary, but it’s jarring, all of this. “Katniss—we have to be careful.”

“We are being careful,” she says. She comes closer, smooths her hand over the side of my face. “We’ll stop if you want. Until things are calmer. But I still want to see you.”

“I want to see you too,” I murmur. “I just think we need to rethink this. If we get caught…” I trail off, because it’s clear that the stakes are much higher now.

“I’m always happy to see you,” she whispers, kissing my cheek. “No matter what.”

It’s clear, a day later, that the Mayor feels the opposite.

I’m exhausted, having spent the night restless, thinking about the Peacekeepers, my brother and father, about Katniss and Madge stuck inside the mansion. When there’s a knock at my door, I call out for whoever it is to come in, and the Mayor strides across the room and takes a seat across from me.

“Sir,” I say. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

“Circumstances require my presence here,” he says stiffly. “I need to access several records.”

“What kinds?” I ask, pulling up the database.

“Those belonging to Cray. Employment reports. Monetary assignments.”

I hesitate, not even typing in the name, because I know I’m not allowed to do this. Not without permission from one of the other clerks. Although I know it’s a bad move, I tell him so. His face darkens like the storm clouds outside.

“Needn’t I remind you that you’re on _my_ payroll, Mr. Mellark?” he says, threat clear in every syllable.

“I’m paid by the Capitol,” I say, lifting my chin. “The Administration Office pays my wages, not you.”

He leans forward. “I can have you removed from your post,” he counters.

“Would you bring the matter to Head Peacekeeper Thread?” I ask and his left eye twitches. “I think he’d be happy to hear from you,” I add, and he takes a breath, puffing out his chest.

“I’m watching you,” he says lowly. “You might have been school friends with my wife and my daughter, but you are not children anymore, and I will not treat you as such if you overstep or place yourself where you are not welcome. You would be a good match for my daughter. Don’t make me regret that judgement.”

“I don’t know what reason I could give for you to do so.”

“No,” he says, donning his hat as he makes for the door. Then he stops and looks at me. “The district could do with the cheer of a wedding. I’d be happy to announce your union with Madge. Your wedding would rise far beyond what you provide here to the citizenry.”

“I’m part of the citizenry, sir.”

“Not if you join this family.”

“She’d take my surname. It’s a shame she couldn’t inherit the bakery.”

His mouth presses into a line. “No. But a clerk position is much better than that of a common trade.”

I know he’s trying to get a rise out of me, but I’m not stupid, and I’m not willing to give him the satisfaction of it. All I give is a genial smile.

“I can’t give you the records,” I tell him, and he stands, shoving the chair back loudly.

“This is ridiculous.”

“It’s procedure, sir. And I’m not about to violate that, not with the Thread walking around.”

“You haven’t met him yet, have you?”

“No sir, I haven’t.”

He nods. “I thought not.”

He heads for the door and then looks back at me. “You’d do well to remember your place,” he says. “And to remember what the law says about taking what is forbidden.”

I keep my face neutral as I say, _have a good morning, sir,_ but as soon as he’s gone, I push back from my desk, panic rising in my chest. So he knows. That’s certain. And all that’s stopping him is proof.

I rip off a leaf of paper and write a quick note.

> _I’m certain he knows._
> 
> _I may have to stay away._

I seal it in an envelope, address it _to Miss M Undersee_ , and pay a kid three coins to take it to the mansion. And then I peer through my office window at the smoke drifting over from the Seam, and watch the Mayor march his way up the main street and out of sight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love hearing all your theories, keep them coming :)  
> saturnblushes on tumblr and pinterest


	10. on liberty's lips we die

I do not receive any notices from Katniss for some time, not even those disguised as being written by Madge. I stay away from the mansion. I stay away from all of those things. I work at the Justice Building. I help at the bakery. I visit friends. I try to stay on people’s good sides. I try to tamp down the worry that the Mayor knows and that he has or is punishing Katniss for it.

If I turn up at the mansion, I know I will make things worse. Laying low for the time being is best, for all of us.

At the Justice Building, things are marginally calmer, though as the arrival date of the next train draws closer, people get anxious again about whether it’ll be on time. It’s getting much colder now, suddenly, too, and people worry when that happens. Delays means people starving and dead in their homes. It leaves people to fight over scraps.

Of course it’s always affected me much less than it does those in the Seam. I know they face a fight to survive each winter that is not comparable to my skipping a meal a day, when things get tough. At least I can still eat. At least I have a roof over my head.

Even now, when I’m on my own, I have that.

The winter festival draws upon us, though the usual excitement in the air is dampened a little by the presence of Thread and Peacekeepers on every corner.

“We’ll just be more cautious than usual,” Rye says, when our father asks whether he’s going to change the typical plans to work a stall at the festival. “We should still be able to enjoy ourselves. Provide for everyone. We’ll be alright.”

Usually the Peacekeepers just mill around with the rest of us, and Cray used to be as drunk and merry as anyone else. This year it won’t be the same, but that doesn’t mean Twelve won’t turn out in force.

Rye looks slightly nervous, still, but he’s right. We can’t let the Capitol grind us down.

The train arrives on time, thankfully, bolstering everyone’s moods further, reassuring people that the festival won’t be a total disaster. I spend most of that day helping organise ration collection at the station, doling out what people are owed and making note of what extras people buy.

“Easy life for some, little brother!” says Rye, patting me roughly on the shoulder after I stamp the bakery log, allowing him to go on ahead onto the platform itself and collect supplies straight from the gleaming bullet of the train.

I know he’s joking, but it makes me feel guilty. By the time the last people have arrived—no one hangs about when it comes to collecting personal allowances—I know it’s too late to help with hefting the bags back from the train to the bakery itself like last time, but it’s not too late to help out.

When I get to the bakery, ink still staining my fingers after a day writing and stamping documents, Damson is at the front, assuring people they won’t run out of bread and cakes. She sticks her cheek out for me to kiss as I pass.

“He’s having a tantrum in the cellar,” she says, winking, and I shuck off my heavy coat and go and find my brother.

“Rye?” I call down from the top of the cellar steps. The kitchen isn’t… chaos, per say, but it’s certainly not organised.

“Peeta?” Rye replies. “Get yourself down here!”

I navigate the narrow wooden steps and find him stood looking at stacks of bags of flour, wheat, sugar, and more, his expression one of bitterness and regret.

“How in Panem’s name did dad do this?” he asks.

“What do you mean?”

“This cellar is not big enough for these to be organised in a way that makes any sense. And I think mice are getting in somewhere.”

“Well, for the mice, you’ll have to set a trap,” I reason, rolling up my sleeves. “And as for these…” I gesture around. “You should’ve paid attention to dad’s advice. Or maybe helped out more instead of leaving us to do it all those years.”

He rolls his eyes.

“I didn’t call you down here so you could say _I told you so_ ,” he says, and I laugh.

We spend the next hour organising the cellar. Our father’s trusty organisation system seems to come back to him before long, and it’s quick work, if tiring.

“You’ll help me with the festival prep too, right?” Rye asks. He might have taken to running the place after only a few hiccups, but I know big events like this freak him out. “I asked dad to help and he said yes. But I don’t want him to try and do everything.”

“Which he will,” I murmur. “Of course I’ll help.”

“Good,” he beams. “And you’ll work the stall too, let me and Damson have a bit of fun instead of having to sell bread to people all night, standing there in the cold.”

I smile despite myself. “Sure,” I say, and he pats me on the cheek.

“That’s why you’re my favourite,” he says, and then I’m out in the cold, dark street, headed home, only having to show my ID to a patrolling Peacekeeper once.

Sure enough, in the week leading up to the festival, I’m at the bakery almost every evening. We start early to stop any panics or disasters occurring too close to the night itself. It’s one of the bakery’s most profitable nights of the year, and I know Rye doesn’t want to fuck up his first solo one, especially with the way things are.

Dad of course turns up, somehow looking older despite the fact that he’s meant to be relaxing and enjoying his retirement, and helps out, and it doesn’t take long for Rye to be pulling his hair out.

“Dad, dad, _I know_!” he says, when our father reminds him yet again to _do_ _this_ or _do that_. “I know what I’m doing.”

“Do you?” dad asks, eyebrows shooting up.

“Yes!” Rye exclaims. Then he sighs, loudly, and retreats to the front of the shop. Damson appears a moment later, eyes sparkling.

“He’ll burst something if you keep that up,” she warns, and my father chuckles.

Prep is busy work, leaving the kitchen crowded with baked goods waiting to be bagged and sold and ensuring that flour ends up lodged into every groove of my hands and my mind. I dream about the damn stuff.

It’s like old times. Squishing into the kitchen with my brothers and my father, making endless trays of biscuits, cookies, breads, and dumplings. He’s torn between going with tradition—don’t fix what isn’t broken, he tells me late one night—and with trying something new to indicate a new generation of Mellarks.

We talk about the bakery, about family, about anything that isn’t the Mayor or Head Peacekeeper Thread or my visits to the mansion. It’s not enough to distract us all, but it’s better than staring out the window at the Peacekeepers or firing questions at me.

We end up with trays and trays of seeded loaves and rolls, rows of glazed buns, pastries dripping with sugar, honey, cinnamon, and more. There are baskets of cookies and cakes just waiting around. It makes everything smell delightful, but gods, it’s hard work.

When the day of the festival finally arrives, I’m at the Justice Building like normal, and spend much of it stood by the window, watching the square slowly being assembled. The whipping posts and stocks are pushed back, if not removed. Huge banners with the Capitol seal are unfurled and hung from the buildings. Benches and bales of hay are brought in to act as seating. Someone attempts to clean the steps of the Justice Building, but it proves impossible. That coal dust is well and truly embedded.

Then the stalls begin to arrive, wheeled in or carried in pieces and put together there, scattered around the edge of the square. Places to buy food, drinks, candies, jewellery, odds and ends. Some people sell what little they’ve been able to grow on their own plots of land. It’s jaunty and make-do but it displays the true heart of Twelve, the goodness in it, the slow but steady forward tread into the face of adversity.

It’s an archaic tradition, really, especially in Twelve where we grow no crops. But some traditions are longer than any of us can remember and they stick deep into your bones. It would be a remiss not to have it. There were rumours flying around that Thread was going to cancel it, but no one has been prevented from setting up, and no warnings have been given, so it’s assumed to not be a problem.

After the workday, I stop home to change into something that can and will get covered in flour and sugar, drink a cup of tea, and then head to the bakery. It’s a pleasant walk, cold, frost approaching, and lights have been strung across some of the streets. It’s enough to make the Quarters look cosy, despite the warren of streets and alleyways and despite the deep, dark gloom of the winter night.

The bakery is a glowing beacon, a veritable hive. I step in through the back door and find Rye at a critical stage of stress.

“Thank god,” he says as I hang up my coat and gloves and pull on an apron, scrubbing my hands with some soap and then taking the spoon he thrusts at me. “Just—just stand here and stir, okay?”

“You seem calm,” I muse, and he flicks me on the back of the head before running upstairs.

Damson appears a second later.

“I’ve been hiding with your father in the front,” she says. “He’s driving me insane.”

“He just wants his first festival to go well.”

“I know that—and it will. But I’ll strangle him if he keeps on like this and then he won’t even get to see the damn thing.”

I convince her to go and see if he’s alright upstairs, and a few minutes later, Rye comes down looking marginally more in control, and does an admirable job at coordinating everyone as we begin loading up the cart with goods to take to our usual stall. We lock the bakery up and make our way to the square, bundled up against the cold, and begin to set up with a dozen other Merchants, watching the band—mostly Seam players, who know all the old songs otherwise lost to time—practice on the little stage by the Justice Building.

I wave to Delly, who’s helping her father set up a display of shoes, and at Mitch, who will be selling horseshoes and other hammered metal goods with his family. I was right about the Peacekeepers—they’re spread around the square, and Thread walks up and down the stalls, asking for permits, checking what’s being sold, his hand never lifting from the gun at his thigh.

“You’re welcome to try something,” says Rye when he reaches us. He looks up from the bakery’s log book, which contains our license.

“What would you recommend?” he says flatly, handing back the book, seemingly satisfied. His beady eyes flicker over all of us, landing on me. He squints. I swallow down a bubble of apprehension.

Rye selects a sticky pastry and hands it over. Watching the man bite into a sweet, fluffy baked good is like watching a dog walk down the street on its hind legs, juggling a ball, but if that ball was actually a firebomb that would explode if dropped.

“Rather good,” he says after a moment. He has honey stuck to the corner of his mouth. None of us say anything, just standing there. “Not like our food in District 2. But it will do.”

“Thank you, sir,” says Rye, dipping his head, and Thread moves on.

We all exchange looks. Then my father claps his hands together, eyebrows lifting, and says, “Well, let’s get to work.”

People begin to drift in, and a trickle becomes a torrent pretty quickly, the square filling with people. Even the mines are closed tonight, allowing everyone a few hours of respite.

Once the initial rush has subsided, I tell Damson and Rye that I’m alright by myself and encourage them to go and peruse the other stalls, buy some punch, dance to the joyous music. They both work so hard and they should be able to enjoy themselves.

I lean my hands against the stall and look out at the crowds, smiling. It’s nice to see everyone coming together. The square is heaving with people. Some dance, some watch the performers, and others mill around the stalls, buying hot spiced drinks, trinkets, and baked goods, of course. I can tell that certain individuals aren’t drinking as much as they might, perhaps wary of prosecution or of doing something they’d regret that would put them in the stocks. Ripper, the one-armed Seam woman who sells liquor to half the district, isn’t even here.

Delly stops by, hugging me tightly and buying some sweet pastries and hot cocoa. A little while later, Mitch and Laurel appear as well.

“You miss your friends?” my father asks after they leave. He’s been sat on a chair carried over from the bakery for much of the evening, sipping spiced wine and gossiping.

“Yeah,” I say, leaning against the stall. “Things are a lot different now.”

“Took it for granted when you could see them every day, huh?”

“We see each other plenty. It’s just not the same.”

“You’re all very busy,” he agrees. “In your professional lives and personal lives. As long as you’re happy, though, that’s all that matters.”

I squint at him and then look away. He’s evidently intending to communicate something indirectly, but I refuse to read in-between the lines. I know the double meaning laced there is about me and Katniss. I also know that it’s a reference to what people have been accusing me of.

“I think you need to lay off the wine,” I tell my father, and he chuckles, nose red in the cold, and stands up, stretching.

“I’m going back to the bakery,” he says. “It’s too cold to be sitting around like this.”

“Well, you could help out,” I say lightly, and he laughs again, hand on my shoulder.

“Thought you wanted me to relax, son,” he retorts, and then he turns and heads out of the square. I shake my head and watch him go.

I turn around a moment later and find a woman approaching the stall. Merchant, and I’m pretty sure she was one of my mother’s friends at some point. I can tell right away that she’s looking to cause trouble, and stand to my full height, looking down at her with thinly-veiled dislike.

She orders some food and then narrows her eyes at me.

“Must be difficult, working for the common folk after spending so much time working with the Mayor,” she says sharply. I spare her a glance. _Common_ _folk_. As if she didn’t see me walking around the Quarters for last two decades.

“I work for the Mayor,” I reply. “And that’s it.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised if you were investigated for what you and the other Capitol stalwarts do to this district,” she sneers.

“Stalwart?” I say under my breath. “Ma’am, I don’t know how many people I have to say this to. I’m not on the Capitol’s side. Nor the Mayor’s.”

Perhaps I’m speaking too plainly, but I can’t help it. It’s infuriating to be constantly questioned like this. And after what the Mayor said to me, I don’t want to be associated with the man, not by anyone.

“If there’s anyone you should be angry at, it’s the Mayor and the Capitol,” I snap. “Believe me—I’m on your side.”

She gives me a dismissive look and walks away, leaving me angry and unsettled. I shouldn’t have said that. Damson and Rye return a moment later, grinning hugely and buzzing with liquor.

“I didn’t know Rye was such a good dancer,” Damson says, bumping her arm with mine, a little too tipsy to notice my mood.

“I’m going to stretch my legs,” I tell her, and I pull my apron over my head and stalk away before she can say another word.

I duck into a side street, into the shadows, and take a breath. I close my eyes, pinch the bridge of my nose, try to drown out everything. It’s useless, of course. My mind is spinning.

Eventually I have to go back to the stall.

“The Mayor just arrived,” says Rye when I get there. “I was starting to wonder if he would.”

He usually makes an appearance at the festival, giving a short speech and wandering around the square before vanishing, but it’s typically at the beginning as a way to start the festivities. I’d been so busy helping out that I’d completely forgotten about it, hadn’t even noticed he was late.

But now I’m like a hawk, craning my neck, searching. If he is here, surely Katniss will be. I can’t imagine he would let her get out of such a public event, especially considering how few there have been since the wedding. He must want to put on a united front, act like he wasn’t the cause of the burgeoning unrest in the district.

I don’t see him or Madge or Katniss but several peacekeepers move towards the stage, so clearly the order has been given to watch over the Undersees. Only a few minutes must pass before the music stops and a now-familiar, if hated, voice echoes out through the microphone.

“Ladies and gentlemen, thank you all for being here tonight in celebration of our district,” the Mayor begins, and a weak smattering of applause follows. He stands there, looking uncomfortable. Behind him wait Katniss and Madge, dressed for the weather, arms looped through each other’s as they huddle against the cold. They must have come in through the Justice Building to avoid the crowds, but the entire square is watching them all now, including me.

Rye pours cocoa for a customer, who, looking over their shoulder to watch the stage as they wait for their drink, mutters, “I think we were all starting to suspect she’d never come back out from that big old house.” He glances at me. “Or maybe that you’d been imagining things this whole time.”

I can count on one hand how many times Katniss has been seen out and about, let alone with her husband. It’s been six months, but I can still remember those few weeks after the wedding, when no one had seen or heard anything about her. After years of seeing her all over the district, trading with half the population, it was a noticeable loss.

But now she’s here. In front of everyone.

I think of the last time I was at the mansion. How we were so nearly caught. Since then it’s felt like a waiting game. Waiting for what, I’m not sure: perhaps for it to feel possible that I might return, or perhaps for the Mayor to find out once and for all.

The Mayor keeps speaking, but I can’t hear a thing. I just gaze at Katniss, lost in the sight of her.

I watch the stage with such intent that Damson has to pinch my arm to get my attention so I can serve another waiting customer. Once they’re gone, the Mayor is halfway through giving a dull speech about bounty, gratitude, and trust in the Capitol.

He steps away from the microphone and Thread appears, where he reminds the audience that about curfew, and warns against any uncivilised behaviour.

I watch Mayor Undersee stand alongside Katniss, holding her hostage against his side, one arm wrapped around her slim waist. She looks beautiful, even clad in a conservative dark green dress and hideous fur coat, and tilts her head to whisper to Madge as her husband looks across at the crowd. Everything about it is performative and stiff. For a flash, I see myself running across the cobbles, up the steps, taking her hand on stage, and then pulling her down to dance under the lights, away from the Mayor, away from all of it.

I want to talk to her. Discuss what he told me, his warning. More than anything, I want to take her in my arms and feel her presence. I want her to know that I don’t want to put her in harm’s way, but that I can’t stop thinking about her.

I stare, hoping that she’ll look, too, and see me. Whenever there’s a customer and Damson and Rye are busy ringing up totals or fishing for coins in their pockets I serve them with a pleasant smile and a wish for a good night, though I know I’m distracted. I keep looking across the crowds, past the hanging lights, and seeing her.

The Mayor hasn’t moved from her side, and she appears to be more eager to speak to Madge than her husband. They all look over the crowd with smiles I recognise from the Reaping, pasted on, strained, false.

 _Come on_ , I say to myself. _Look to me._

Finally she does, catching my eye across the square as the music reaches a joyous crescendo. Her smile falters for a moment, and she looks away to listen to Madge for a brief moment before looking back at me. She smiles, but it’s sly, slow, secretive, as if we’re alone, as if there aren’t a thousand other eyes to witness it. I smile back, feeling a thrill rush through me. I want to raise my hand and wave but I daren’t.

The two of us, across the public square. It’s the first time I’ve seen her since that day in the mansion when the Mayor almost caught us, since we had that tense discussion about Thread and the unrest, since she told me of her worries for her family and friends.

Eventually they descend from the stage and begin milling around. I see people eyeing Katniss and know she must hate the attention. Madge trails behind with a sour expression, and they begin a circuit around the square. At one point Thread traps them into a conversation. Even from my position I can see how tense it is, how even the Mayor seems cowed under the weight of our new Head Peacekeeper’s gaze.

When Thread moves on, they continue walking around the square, greeting merchants and festival-goers. Seeing the forced pleasantries given by a man who does so much damage and by doing so little makes my jaw tick, and by the time they reach the bakery stall, my pulse is thundering in my ears.

I’m sat in the old chair dad was in, glowering, while Rye and Damson save face with big smiles and warm greetings.

“It’s nice to see you, sir,” says Rye.

“Well, you know how busy I can be,” the Mayor says, chuckling slightly. “Girls, how about you choose something to eat?”

 _Girls_. I keep my arms folded over my chest and my feet flat on the cobbles.

Madge picks out a lemon curd tart, and Katniss a cheese bun.

“How has it been, working the bakery stall for the first time?” the Mayor asks as he pays.

“It’s a lot of work, sir, but worth it,” Rye responds. “We’ve been particularly successful this year. I owe it all to my wife and my brother.”

“Ah, I don’t believe we’ve met, dear,” says the Mayor, shaking Damson’s hand.

“No,” she replies. “How are you all?”

I know she’s purposefully addressing Madge and Katniss so that he can’t completely speak over them or act like they aren’t there.

“We’re very well, thank you,” Katniss murmurs. Her voice is like music to my ears, even as tense and irritated as it sounds.

“How are the cheese buns?” Rye asks her. “We tried a new recipe this year.”

“Very good,” Katniss says.

“It was Peeta’s recipe,” Rye adds, turning to look at me, shooting me a look. I stand and approach, loosening my limbs and forcing myself to smile.

“Is that so?” Madge asks, smiling already, while the Mayor looks at me as if he’d like to squash me beneath his boot.

“I didn’t change much,” I shrug. “Just a few measures, here and there.”

“Well, whatever you did, it turned about beautifully,” Katniss tells me, voice carefully neutral, but her eyes blazing.

“It’s good to see that you remain true to your family roots, Mr Mellark,” the Mayor breaks in, like a sledgehammer smashing glass. “Helping out, even while you work at the Justice Building.”

I nod. “It’s been a busy time for me but you understand the importance of doing everything you can to make people happy.”

There’s a beat and I start to wonder if he’s going to make a scene, but instead he just huffs and says, “Have a good evening,” and turns and leaves.

After ten seconds, both Rye and Damson turn on me.

“What the hell was that?” my brother asks, eyes wide. “Peeta, have you gone mad?”

I play dumb. “What do you mean?”

Damson smacks me on the arm. “You were practically asking for trouble,” she hisses.

“I barely said anything.”

“You said plenty,” Rye says firmly. He sighs, wipes his hand down his face. “I’m going to start taking things back to the bakery, make sure dad is alright after all that wine,” he says. He fixes me with a serious expression. “Don’t be foolish, little brother. Especially not now.”

No one says anything further while Rye packs up a few empty crates, but Damson walks a few paces with him, kissing him on the cheek and watching him walk away down the street. Then she turns back to me. I’m serving a straggler, so she has to wait, but as soon as we’re alone, she frowns.

“Peeta,” she says. Her voice is like I’ve never heard it before, cautionary and flat. “Peeta, I know you love her, but you need to be careful.”

Hearing her say that—hearing another person say it and so plainly—makes me jolt.

“I am being careful,” I tell her, and she clucks her tongue.

“Cray might have passed over it, but I don’t think Thread will hesitate to prosecute if the Mayor asks him to. Have you even considered that?”

“Yes, I—” I begin, and she lifts her brows in challenge.

“I’m not stupid, Peeta. And neither is anyone else. You need to stop this, before it’s too late.”

I open my mouth to say more but then there’s a commotion across the square, a scuffle. The music comes to a halt and someone shouts, and then there’s the sound of a gunshot. Some people scatter, fleeing before anything else can happen. I surge forward without thinking, pulling away from Damson. Katniss can’t have left yet—she and Madge must still be in the square.

I see soon enough what’s happened. No one has been shot, but a miner lies unconscious on the ground while another two are grappling with Peacekeepers. There’s yelling and a mix of people running and fighting to see what’s going on. The sound of a motor thunders into the air and I spot the Mayor’s black car pouring out of the square and into the darkness.

“Peeta!” I hear Rye yell, and I turn and go back to him and Damson. He’s out of breath, having run back here from the bakery after hearing the gunfire. “What’s going on?”

“I don’t know,” I say, looking around. It was tense before, but now everything is spilling over. Peacekeepers are holding their guns, corralling people and ordering them around.

“We need to leave,” Damson says. “Come on, Rye.”

Around us, sellers are packing up swiftly, looking to get away. The musicians are long-gone. It’s amazing how quickly things can change. As we work to load things into the cart, a sense of panic filling each and every one of us, we witness Peacekeepers stringing up some of the fighters into the stocks and hear Thread bellowing about curfew.

“Go, go!” I say, when the last of the stuff is packed onto the cart. “I’ve got this!”

“Peet, you sure?” Rye asks as I heft the wide board we used as a countertop over my shoulder. He’s patting his pockets, making sure the money we earned is safely in the pouch at his hip.

“Yes, Rye, just go, I’ll be right behind you,” I say. The fear in the air is shocking, like being dunked into icy water. At least Katniss is okay and away from all this. Whatever it was that happened that started this and ended the festival so quickly must have been serious—much more than a simple drunken brawl.

I grab dad’s chair in my free hand and spare one more glance behind me at the square, empty but for straggling Merchants and perhaps family and friends of those strung up and, of course, the Peacekeepers, and then hurry after Rye and Damson.

They’ve gotten a far distance already, and the street is almost empty so it’s not hard to hear a muffled shout in an alleyway. I slow my pace, peering into the gloom, and to my surprise, I see Gale Hawthorne there, pushing back two men around his age, miners like him.

“Not now!” he hisses. “Not now. She’s not ready. Nothing’s ready. You’re only going to make it worse!”

I stop. “Is everything okay?” I ask warily, and he turns around, eyes flashing. His nose is bleeding, and one of the other men holds his side, grimace. They must have been at the centre of whatever happened in the square. It’s a miracle they got away. They all puff their chests up at the sight of me, and Gale gives me a look.

“It’s fine,” he snaps. “Just do your job, Mellark.”

I narrow my eyes. What does he mean by that?

“Watch out for the keepers,” I say instead of asking him for clarification, and he doesn’t even look at me. I carry on walking.

At the bakery, Rye is consoling Damson, who is trying to reassure my father that everything is alright. None of us know how to explain what happened because we don’t know, only that it happened out of the blue.

What we do know is that it’s not too surprising. With Thread’s adherence for the law and the unrest of the district, things have been unsteady for some time. With so many people in the square, it was only inevitable.

It was a profitable night for the bakery, but none of us are celebrating.

“I’m gonna go,” I say after ten minutes or so. Rye nods, looking troubled.

“Be careful,” he says. “I’m worried about how trigger-happy the Peacekeepers are going to be.”

“I know,” I tell him, trying to be reassuring. I hug each of them and Damson watches from the backdoor until I’m out of sight.

I hurry home, luckily avoiding any person, foe or friend. From the window in my apartment, I watch and listen to the still, silent Quarters. The lanterns in the square are still lit, their cheery glow now menacing under the black sky.

After that night, rumours fly around about what happened in the square. Some say it was an insult thrown at the Undersees. Others say it was an attempt to desecrate a Capitol flag. Others say it was just people being too drunk under the watchful eyes of Peacekeepers.

With curfew in place, the Quarters are almost silent by seven p.m. each evening, and anyone caught out is subject to the ire of Peacekeepers. Seeing them, armed and patrolling, becomes the new normal. Going through multiple stages of identity confirmation just to get to work at the Justice Building is annoying and stressful but now inescapable. Stories drift in from the Seam. The mines are under constant guard, now, run like clockwork. The Hob is gone, shuttered indefinitely. The fence is electrified more often than ever before, a sporadically lighting up with surges of electricity.

I want desperately to see Katniss and Madge, see if they’re okay after the chaos in the square. I want to ask about Gale. About what the hell is happening and why it’s happening.

I want to go to the mansion, but I don’t dare try it. Instead, I wait. The nights get blacker, colder, the Peacekeepers prowl up and down the streets like spirits, the Justice Building fills with people—mostly from the Seam—filing for tesserae. The train arrives again, surprising us all. There’s a crush at the station. Two people die.

Thread starts doing weekly, unannounced raids. He doesn’t favour the Seam or the Quarters, invading each without warning, searching for what—weapons? Contraband? His orders must be to look for something. He and his higher-ups must have a reason for this.

Rumours fly around about unrest elsewhere in Panem but we receive no official explanations. Capitol television continues to blast the anthem, news from the city, speeches from President Snow. Whether I’m at work, at the bakery, or visiting Mitch or Delly, there’s a constant pressure in the air. You can see it in the eyes of every person. We try to distract ourselves with inane conversations but how can you talk about how your day has gone when what’s happening around us is so deeply part of it?

Finally, a letter. I arrive home one evening and find it wedged into the jamb.

I make sure I’m inside before I read it.

> _He will be gone for three hours tomorrow. I will be at the gate at 10. Do not be late._

The next morning, I set off to arrive on time, as requested. I’m nervous, approaching three armed Peacekeepers, but more anxious to see Katniss and Madge.

I keep my stance loose as I approach the gate, and a Peacekeeper steps forward, gun in hand.

“I’m here at the invitation of Madge Undersee,” I say, and then I peer past, through the gates, and see Madge hurrying down the gravel, wrapped in a woollen shawl.

“It’s alright!” she says. “He’s a guest!”

That isn’t enough for the Peacekeepers, who request my ID papers. I glance at Madge stood on the other side of the gate as we wait for the guards to confer, buzzing inside their helmets. Finally my papers are handed back to me and the gate is opened, allowing me to step through.

“Keep walking,” Madge says, looping her arm through mine and half-pulling me down the driveway at a pace a little too fast to be casual.

“How many others are there?” I ask, not daring to look back. The house looms in front of us, the trees still, laden with the remnants of the night’s frost. It’ll soon be snowing, I’m sure.

“The three at the gate, plus seven stationed at various points around the boundary,” she says. She looks pale, like she’s slept very little. She might be separated from everything going on in the rest of the district but that doesn’t mean it won’t be playing on her mind. And the sight of armed guards surrounding the house is certainly unsettling.

Once we’re in the house, she leads me straight up to her quarters. The piano sits still and abandoned, and some of the curtains are drawn, letting even less of the dim grey light outside into the room. Katniss sits curled up in a high-backed chair, but she stands when she hears us enter.

“Peeta,” she says, and I’m surprised when she approaches and pulls me into a hug. “I’m so glad you’re okay,” she tells me, pulling back. I furrow my brow. Did she expect that I wouldn’t be?

“I’m fine,” I say, shaking my head. “How are you both? I saw you leaving at the festival. Were you hurt? What happened?”

“Sit down, Peeta,” Madge says, and I do so. “We’re both alright. When the commotion started my father just decided it was best that we get out of there.”

“So you don’t know what happened?”

Madge opens her mouth to speak, but Katniss puts her hand out and explains instead.

“You must have heard there have been tensions in other districts. And you’ve see first had the issues with the trains and money and rations. A lot of people, especially in the Seam, have been wanting to protest all of this, demand fairer treatment.”

“I don’t blame them,” I say, shaking my head. I think of the bad news I’ve had to give to the director of the mine, the countless people from the Seam who’ve had to submit death certificates because of dangerous conditions in the mines.

“But some of the miners thought it was a good idea to use the festival as a rallying point. To get people to join the cause. Some people were going around trying to recruit and Thread caught on pretty quickly.”

“I saw Gale after the festival ended,” I say. “He looked like he’d been caught up in it.”

“He was,” Katniss says tightly. “He was trying to stop it from getting out of hand.”

“But you’re both okay?” I ask. “I was worried. There was a gunshot.”

“That was just a warning. Darius fired.”

I nod slowly, taking it all in. I didn’t even know the miners were planning anything, and why would I? The only one I talk to on a semi-regular basis if Gale.

“Does the Mayor know about it?” I ask.

“He’s aware, yes,” Madge says. “I don’t think he knows exactly what people are talking about doing… but he knows there’s a lot of unrest. Lots of it aimed at him.”

Poor Madge, stuck inside this house, knowing people outside have a hatred for her father so strong they’d be willing to incite violence and protest, even with the new Head Peacekeeper’s new rule.

“They won’t hurt you,” I say. I look at Katniss. “Either of you. They know you’re not to blame for any of this.”

Madge leans back in her chair. “There’s not much we can do,” she says flatly. “We’re just waiting at the moment.”

“For what?” I ask. Katniss leans forward, takes my hand.

“Peeta,” she says. “Do you trust us?”

“Of course,” I murmur, confused by this sudden shift in direction. “What is this about?”

“Things are—difficult, right now,” she says, grey eyes burning into me. “Madge and I will be okay. We know what we’re doing. So we just— _I_ just—need you to be careful. Keep on as you are. I don’t want you caught up on the wrong side of things.”

“Wrong side?” I ask. I think hard. “You know people have been suspicious of me. The Mayor included. Saying that I’m on his side.”

“We know you’re not,” Madge says earnestly. “But for now, you must be careful.”

“We need you to be part of all of this but if people are questioning what side you’re on…” Katniss shakes her head. “It should be so clear that you’re not the enemy. But people are scared.”

“I don’t blame them,” I say. “It just doesn’t feel great to be attacked. I never would’ve taken the clerk position if I knew this was what was going to happen.”

“If you hadn’t, things wouldn’t have gone the way they did,” Katniss says softly. “You wouldn’t be here right now.”

I offer her a small smile. “No,” I say. “I suppose not.”

We sit quietly for a moment. A soft rain starts outside, dappling against the glass windowpanes.

“Do you think there will be an uprising?” I ask. It doesn’t seem so far out of the realm of possibility after all, not now. And the Peacekeepers might be armed but they are outnumbered and I know that angry people will fight until the bitter end. Angry, starving people will do much more.

“The district wouldn’t survive it,” Katniss says. “The best we can do is implement power and change in a way that helps instead of worsens.”

I blink. “What does that _mean_?” I ask, a little frustrated. It feels like everyone is talking in riddles.

“It means, Peeta, that you just need to do your job, like everyone else.”

I remember Gale’s harsh words. They felt like a threat.

Katniss purses her lips. “But you have to be careful. I don’t want you to get hurt.”

“If my father is the target of the district’s ire, I don’t see it taking much for someone to target you, too,” Madge says plainly, and isn’t that a thought. My brother and father said the same thing.

“I’ll be right back,” she says a moment later, standing and vanishing from the room. I look at Katniss, who gazes through the window at the bitterly cold view overlooking the edge of the property. You can see the edge of the district itself, a grey expanse of trees stretching far into the distance.

“Are you okay?” I say quietly, wanting a real answer now that we’re alone. “Have you spoken to Prim or anyone?”

“Letters are near impossible to exchange now,” she shrugs. “The last one was two weeks ago. Other than that… things are stressful. I want to be out there, helping. Not in here.”

“I’m sure you are helping,” I offer. “Just being here, with Madge. And what could you possibly do about what’s going on out there?”

Katniss turns and looks at me. She reaches up and puts her hand on the side of my face, thumb brushing over my cheekbone.

“I’m sorry you have to deal with him,” she says. “I know he’s been trying to get you to give him information. I know some people have been horrid towards you. I didn’t mean for this to happen.”

“It’s not your fault,” I say, pulling her a little closer. “How is he when he’s here?”

“I keep out of his way. We all do. He knows his luck has run out now, that’s it just a matter of time.”

She smiles sadly at me. I feel helpless as to how to comfort her.

“I wish I could take you away from all of this,” I say, and she nods.

“I know.”

She leans in and kisses me softly, hand going to the back of my neck. When the sound of Madge’s footsteps track towards us, she pulls back and returns to her seat.

We pass the next hour with hot tea and card games. We talk a little more about the district, the trouble, and way it has seeped into everything. The cards are a welcomed distraction from it all, and for a moment it feels like the tension in the air has lifted a little, and we find ourselves laughing when Madge sets down her winning card and cheers.

And then the door creaks open.

“What in Panem’s name are _you_ doing here?” comes the Mayor’s voice, booming, angry. I stand, knocking the table with my knees, scattering the cards, and Madge goes pale, freezing. Her back to the Mayor, Katniss sets her cards down and closes her eyes for a beat, as she she’s composing herself.

The Mayor strides forward. His shoes leave wet prints on the shiny floor and he brings in the smell of cold and rain.

“Sir,” I say, clearing my throat.

“Peeta’s only here to visit,” Madge says quickly.

“I was worried someone was hurt after the events of the festival,” I add. It’s seemingly a bad idea to mention the festival, because his eyes darken and a vein in his forehead bulges.

“I don’t know what you think this is,” he spits. “Or who you think I am, but I will not stand for this kind of insolence. Whatever you three are up to—it will stop. Today.”

“Peeta is a _friend_ , father,” Madge says. “Come, you must have had a difficult day. I’ll call Tullia, have her bring you something to eat.”

He points his finger at me. “You forget your station, Mr Mellark,” he says lowly. “I employ you, bring you into my home, into my trust, and you repay me like this?”

“What exactly has he done?” Katniss says, her voice surprising everyone, I think. She stands from the chair, her jaw set. “Isaac—tell me what it is you think is going on here. Peeta is a friend. He brings no ill wishes into this home.”

“You are as much to blame as he is, running around, spreading lies,” the Mayor hisses. “I’ll see to it that this behaviour is put to an end one way or another.”

I think for a moment about what pressure he must be under. Not to empathise with him or excuse him, but it would certainly explain this. Like the rest of the district, it seems that months of his barely-concealed anger has finally erupted to the surface. Whatever it is he’s been threatened with—whatever or whoever prompted him to realise that his years of scheming and fraud and denying the district and its people of what was needed—it’s been enough to spook him, enough to drive him here, where he shouts and rages and accuses.

Madge and Katniss and everyone else were right to warn me. I think of what Damson said:

_I don’t think Thread will hesitate to prosecute if the Mayor asks him to._

This man—the one in front of me, red-faced and furious and realising that his actions are catching up to him—this man would ask. He might see Thread as an enemy just like everyone else but he is in the unique position of being able to leverage things in his favour. Rid himself of some of the heat by turning it onto me.

“I would have expected this kind of behaviour from a miner, not from you,” he continues, lip curling. “All they seek to do is destroy what protects them and you are bringing that behaviour into my home, corrupting my daughter and my wife.”

“Sir, I have no clue what you’re talking about,” I say, putting out a placating hand. It seems so certain that he knows that Katniss and I have been sneaking around but he just won’t say it.

“You are just as responsible for all of this as the rest of them!” he bellows. “You are no longer under my employment, and therefore unwelcome in my home. Get out!”

Madge protests, exclaiming that I’m just a friend, that he can’t bar me from the mansion. Katniss stands, silent, glowering.

“Go back to the Justice Building and keep out of my business,” the Mayor says lowly. “If I have any more trouble from you—any of you—your position will be terminated and I will not hesitate to bring you to justice.”

We all stand there for a second, no one saying anything, and then I grab my jacket. My heart is pounding and I’m furious and confused but I know that I need to leave before things spiral any further out of control.

“Madge,” I say, nodding my head. She stares at the ceiling, hands balled into fists. “Katniss,” I add, and she looks oddly calm, briefly looking at me and then away again.

I stride past the Mayor and have barely reached the staircase before I hear shouting. I fling open the door and march down the driveway. At the gate, the Peacekeepers let me out without a problem. The rain lashes down ever harder, and the mansion vanishes from my sight.

After a four days away, it all begins to feel like some odd hallucination. Maybe the paint fumes have done some permanent damage after all.

I replay the Mayor’s words in my mind. I replay my conversation with Madge and Katniss. I go to the bakery to work. I visit friends. I stay longer at the Justice Building. I sit in my quiet apartment and sketch every image that comes to mind. I watch as the district seems to collectively sink further and further into a regime of terror.

And then, late on the fifth night, there’s a knock at the door

It’s late, early morning hours, and the kind of windy that only comes with brooding storms. My windows rattle and the walls shake as the wind pries at the roof of the building. It’s so loud that I almost miss the sound.

I answer cautiously, wondering who could be out at this hour and in this weather, and find a hunched figure standing at the top of the steps, wrapped in a shawl and with a hood over their head, obscuring their face in shadow.

I squint, confused. “Can I h—” I begin, but the person bustles their way inside. I shut the door to stop leaves blowing in and by the time I’ve turned the person has unwrapped their scarves and shawls and numerous other layers to reveal themselves as Katniss.

“Do you have any idea how dangerous it is out there?” I ask. It’s not what I planned to say first, but the sentiment stands.

“I wanted to see you,” she says, pushing her windswept hair out of her face. “After everything that happened, I wanted to see you, make sure you were okay.”

“I’m fine,” I say, shaking my head in disbelief. “You should have sent a letter, not come all this way. How did you even get out of the mansion?”

“There are more gaps in the boundary than there are Peacekeepers,” she shrugs, and I remember for a moment that this is the girl who snuck out into the wilds on a near-daily basis for years.

She steps forward and I hug her to me, putting my nose in her hair.

“Gods,” I mumble. “This is a bad idea.”

She pulls back, frowns. “I can leave if you don’t want me here.”

“No, no, Katniss, I do. Of course I want to see you. But it’s so dangerous right now. What if you’d have been stopped?”

“I wasn’t.”

“But what if?”

“ _I wasn’t_ ,” she repeats. “I missed you. And Isaac might be angry but I don’t care.”

“You don’t care?” I ask. “What is this? How do you not care? He clearly knows what we’ve been doing.”

“He’s just angry and scared about getting caught,” she says. I almost laugh, because I feel exactly the same way. She kisses me, opening her mouth against mine. “I just want to forget about everything. Can’t you be happy that I’m here?”

It’s impossible for me to say no, and I can’t deny that I too want to forget about everything, even if just for a while. I missed her, worried about her, and now I’m banned from the mansion. I should be happy that she wants to see me. Of course I am.

“I’m sorry about what he said to you,” she says. “I told him he was delusional but that didn’t seem to help matters. We just need to wait until everything calms down, and then it won’t matter anymore, what he thinks.”

And that’s how it starts. Late night, secret meetings. After that night, she leaves after a few hours as it begins to snow, promising me she’ll return.

“You came to the mansion for me,” she murmurs. “It’s only fair that I sneak out to see you.”

Three days pass, and she’s back. And then six days later. While the world spirals outside, her presence becomes the one constant.

Late one night, we’re lying in bed, sheets twisted around our bodies, the window cracked open but the curtains drawn tight. She sinks her hand into my hair. I press a kiss to her stomach, inhale the woodsy, fresh scent of her skin.

“I don’t think I’m meant for marriage,” she says. I lift my head and look at her. She’s staring at the ceiling, looking like she’s come to some difficult resolution at long last.

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“I think I’m only meant to be alone. I like people. But I find it difficult to always love them. And how could I marry someone, even if I wanted to, even if I did it for reasons other than to help someone else… how could I marry someone if I didn’t always love them?”

Her words hang in the air.

“No one’s meant to be alone,” I murmur. Although I’ve always had grand gestures of romance sweeping through my heart, the hope and inevitability of finding the person I would spend my existence with, I know it’s not the same for everyone. Some people marry for convenience. Some don’t marry at all. But I don’t believe that anyone is meant to be alone.

“And even if you’re married to someone doesn’t mean you have to love them every day. Your emotions aren’t a constant or a guarantee. But even when you think you’re so angry at a person that you’d can’t bear to even look at them, or think about them… you still love them.”

Katniss makes a sound like she doesn’t believe me.

“Think about your sister. Or Gale. I’m sure there’s been times when you were furious with them.”

She hums. “A few times, with Gale especially.”

“But you knew you loved them. That’s part of why you were so angry.”

“That’s a nice sentiment.”

I furrow my brow. “It’s not a sentiment, Katniss. Are you saying you don’t love anyone?”

“Of course not. But that doesn’t mean I’m meant for marriage.”

“You really can’t imagine marrying someone?”

She narrows her eyes. “I’m married right now.”

“To someone you love.”

“I don’t know.”

We hold each other’s gaze for a moment. All I can think is _I love you, I love you, I love you_. Not that I can tell her that, force my feelings on her, especially feelings she’d never be able to fully act on, even if she returned them with even an ounce of what I’m giving.

“You’d be a perfect husband,” she sighs. I furrow my brow. This entire conversation feels barbed. It’s like a minefield and I don’t know which are duds and which ones will blow me ten feet into the air, scattering me into bits.

“For who?” I ask. “You?”

She eyes me. I feel like my heart is beating out of my chest.

I would marry her in a heartbeat. That she’s good for me, through and through, that I’ve always known it. But if she doesn’t want marriage—and I don’t see how that belief could shift in my favour, or in the favour of anyone else, for that matter, especially not with her union with the mayor.

“My mom warned me,” she says before I can speak. It’s not often she speaks of her mother, but I know she has regrets, no matter how strained their relationship was. “Just before she died, she warned me not to be alone with him. Told me to be careful. And I didn’t understand what she meant.” She smooths her other hand over the bedsheets. “I wonder what she’d say to me now.”

I look at her. For once I can hardly think of what to say. If I move in one direction and admit that my affections for her were embedded in my heart long before she married the mayor, it will only end in ruin and upset. Because what can she do? Even if she liked me, she couldn’t leave the mayor. There are laws against divorce that even the mayor’s wife can’t get around.

But if I say nothing, how long will this all continue? Until we’re old and grey? Until the mayor himself passes on? The agony of it all I think would be what killed me, in the end. I know what is expected of me, to court a nice Merchant girl and settle down. For so long I assumed I’d marry Delly. But things are so different, now. Different, but the odds are so very much stacked against us.

I imagine, briefly, a world where she never becomes an Undersee. She would remain an Everdeen, free. Maybe then I’d marry someone else. Maybe none of this would have ever happened, me and her. Or maybe, says the hopeful, romantic voice in the back of my head, which so willingly let me fall under Katniss’ spell that day in the schoolyard and deeper still the day I first began to paint her, maybe this would happen.

In some alternate reality, there’s a Katniss and a Peeta who come together under different circumstances. At what point do our paths split, creating this version of events over another? Somewhere, there’s a version of all this where she never marries the mayor. But what’s to say she’d marry me?

It all seems laughable, especially now, these silly dreams and fantasies, these frivolous conversations. And yet I find myself thinking about it. Perhaps we’d bump into each other and get talking. Perhaps I would win her over. Perhaps we’d happy.

“I wish things could be different for you,” I say. Katniss looks troubled for a moment.

“One day they will be,” she murmurs. “For now we just have to wait. Things will change, Peeta. I know that for certain.”

I eye her, my brow creasing heavily, and reach out to brush some hair from her face. Then I chance a question.

“If you didn’t marry him—what do you think would have happened?”

Katniss thinks for a moment, and then makes a vaguely amused sound. “I would have slipped and cracked my head open deep in the woods and no one would’ve ever known. I would simply vanish from existence.”

“I would have found you,” I say. “Somehow I’d end up in the woods. Don’t ask me how.”

She laughs a little. “That I know would certainly never happen.”

I get up to make us some hot tea, and when I bring it back, she fixes me with a look and then asks me what I never, ever expected her to.

“Growing up, who did you want to marry?”

I choke on my tea, and she gives me an odd look.

“Katniss,” I say, coughing. “What?”

“You asked me,” she counters.

“I asked you what you thought would happen, not who you wanted to marry. My question was a lot more open-ended.”

“You’re a romantic, Peeta, of course you had someone in mind.” I stare at her, and she quirks her eyebrow. “Do you want me to guess?” she asks. Then, sighing, she begins naming random Merchant girls. On the fifth name I just blurt it out. In times like these, honesty seems like a precious commodity, a sharp weapon.

“You,” I say. She stops, mouth open. “You,” I repeat, softer. “I wanted to marry you.”

Katniss’ face does something complicated, and I’m sure it’s some inverse reflect of my own. But the truth it out there, now, finally. And it makes it worse. It makes it hurt even more to see how her expression narrows in, how her shoulders tense as if repelled.

When she doesn’t say anything, and just drinks more of her tea, I decide to shoot myself in my other foot for good measure, feeling somewhat reckless at this late hour.

“I really liked you, Katniss. I was too afraid to talk to you. But you were who I wanted to marry, deep down.” I pause. “You must have known I liked you. A lot of people did.” I purse my lips, watching her carefully. “Did you ever… consider me?” I ask.

It’s not an entirely ridiculous question. We may not have run in the same circles but sometimes, especially in the spring and summer months, she’d drop by the bakery once a day, or twice. Our conversations may have been short but maybe one day I’d have been able to buck up the courage to change the topic away from the bakery or hunting and try to make a connection with her.

“Would you have ever asked?” she finally says, and it’s like an arrow to the chest.

“I-I don’t know,” I sputter. “I’d hope so. Would you have said yes?”

And then she twists the arrow deeper and says, “Not at first.”

She leaves not long after that and I watch her vanish into the darkness. A voice in my head warns me that this cannot continue.

She leaves me feeling like I’ve been cut loose from some kind of tether.

 _Not at first_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> saturnblushes on tumblr and pinterest :)


	11. upon this holy ground

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: that flogging tag comes into play in this chapter, but nothing too graphic.
> 
> Also, although I wrote this last year, I am aware that some of the subject matter of this fic, especially this chapter and the next, correlates to what it happening in the States especially. All I will say is that worldwide the police and governmental justice systems are militaristic, racist, sexist, phobic apparatus of control, and that you should do what you can every day to question their role in modern day society.

I never for a moment thought that having Katniss back would solve anything. I never for a moment believed I could pretend like the outside world wasn’t still barrelling on. I always knew that nothing would truly allow me to escape.

I half-expect the admission of my feelings to drive a wedge between us but if anything, it brings us closer together. Perhaps it is the presence of armed Peacekeepers in the streets, or the stirrings of unrest and protest infiltrating daily conversation, but having her alongside me, if only occasionally, makes me only want her more. Makes me want everything else to end just so I can be with her.

I try to think to myself about how it’s been less than a year since that day in the Justice Building, when she was revealed as the bride. So much has changed since then. So much has happened that I never could have predicted, and I don’t just mean between Katniss and I. But I’m simply grateful to have her. Grateful that despite everything she is there.

And then it all shatters.

Katniss arrives later than I anticipate, and in an odd mood. I can’t place it and have little time to figure it out because as soon as the door is closed she’s on me, pulling at my clothes, making sounds that go straight to the animal part of my brain.

We roll onto my bed, and I manage to ask, half-laughing, half-groaning, “What’s got into you?”

And she says, biting, smoothing her hands down my chest, “Isaac gets his women in District 6, so it’s only fair that I get a distraction of my own.”

She leans in and kisses me and I respond for a moment before my brain kicks into gear and I push her back. Her comment rattles in my head.

“What?” I say stupidly, and she squints at me.

“What?” she echoes.

“Why did you say that?” I ask. “What does that mean?”

She shrugs. “Nothing, Peeta. It’s just a dumb comment. I got into a fight with him.”

I let her push me flat onto the mattress and my hands automatically go to the top of her thighs but I can’t stop trying to understand what she meant by that. _A distraction._

“Wait, Katniss, wait a minute,” I say, and she lifts her head from where she’s kissing down my stomach, looking vaguely annoyed. “What do you mean, _a distraction_?”

She blinks at me. “I meant nothing, Peeta. You seriously want to talk about this now? I can’t be here for long.”

“No, no, you meant something,” I say. She lifts her chin. I take a breath. “Is that what you see this as? You see me as a distraction?”

A beat. “Well, yes,” she says plainly. “I don’t mean it to hurt you, Peeta. It’s a good thing.”

She reaches forward again but I push her away.

“This isn’t a distraction to me,” I say. “I know things for you are… different. But I thought it was pretty clear that this wasn’t just something to pass the time.”

“So what did you think it was?” she asks. “This isn’t a relationship, Peeta. You have to know that.”

“No, I do,” I say. “I know that. I’m not stupid.” I shake my head. I feel like the world has gone from full-speed to a grinding, juddering stop in a split second. “I just—what we’re doing isn’t just a distraction. It’s not a _tactic_. Don’t tell me you think this is _just a distraction_ , Katniss.”

“What do you want me to say?” she asks. I shake my head in disbelief.

“I don’t believe you,” I say, gesturing wide. “Everything we’ve done and said to each other. That is not the same as what _your husband_ does when he goes to District 6.”

“Of course it isn’t,” she snaps. “That’s not what I meant.”

“No, but you meant something by it.”

I wrap my arms around myself, feeling like it will stop me from splitting apart in front of her. “You know I like you. That I have for a long time. So tell me the truth. Explain to me what you think this is.”

She says nothing. I laugh hollowly.

“So there is a part of you that thinks this is just fun? Like this doesn’t mean anything.”

It’s not a question, but the twitch in her expression is answer enough.

“Gods,” I say, turning my back on her. I walk into the kitchen. Turn around and look back. “Tell me the truth,” I say, fixing her with a firm look. She scowls. “Tell me what you think this is.” When she just keeps scowling, I rub my temple. “How long have you thought this way? From the beginning?”

“I was bored,” she spits out, eyes narrowing slightly like the memory of her selfish past actions pains her. “I was a bored. I had needs. And wants. And you were there.”

“I was there,” I echo flatly, nodding. I feel distanced from this entire situation, like I’m just watching it unfold from outside of my own body.

“You’d rather me fuck the mayor?” she asks, vitriolic all of a sudden, and I grimace, feeling my own anger beginning to boil over. I glare at her, shocked and hurt.

“I guess I was the next best thing then, huh?”

“What did you expect me to do?”

“Be upfront about it!” I snap, voice booming in the small room. I turn away. “Katniss, I’d expect you to tell the truth about it. Not everything, I wouldn’t expect that, but I’d at least hope you’d tell me what you were doing. Not… not just let it _carry_ _on_. Especially after what I said the other week! How could you let me say that and not tell me the truth?”

“It’s not my fault if that’s how you feel!”

“But it _is_ your fault when you find out something like that and then just keep _using_ them!”

Katniss puts her face in her hands.

“I didn’t know what I wanted to do,” she quietly, painfully. “I just knew I didn’t want what I had.”

“That’s noble of you,” I tell her, my voice dripping with sarcasm. “Gods, Katniss—didn’t you ever stop and think of how selfish you were being?”

She sucks her teeth, looking away. She grabs a shirt and pulls it on. “I just wanted something of my own. I know it’s not the same as District 6. _I know that._ I’m just saying stupid things. But—but I kept coming back to you because you were willing.”

I laugh, the sound bitter. “Why is it that you’re still acting like you’re the victim?”

Her mouth drops open and I shake my head, speaking before she can. “I understand why you would want… someone else. But you lied to me. You’ve lied to me all along.”

“As if you thought we had a chance, Peeta,” she spits. “I’m married. Even if I could annul it, he wouldn’t let me. What did you really think would happen? That we’d sneak around until he died? I know you’re not that stupid.”

And what _did_ I expect? The Mayor’s end could be decades from now. She wouldn’t be able to break off the marriage and whatever it is that we have… whatever it can be labelled as… would it have carried on? How could I have lived my life that way?

“Before… before I had no reason be involved with anyone. I had Prim and Gale and hunting. The only contact I had with you was trading and I didn’t think anything would come of it. Why would it? You’re from another world. It never could have worked.”

I swallow, a million mornings of opening the bakery door to Katniss flashing in my mind. A million chances I didn’t take. Maybe that’s where the other Peeta doesn’t mess up.

“And then my mother died. And things changed so fast. I thought I’d have enough. I thought this was enough. I told myself it was selfish to want something more when this marriage was providing so much for Prim and Gale’s family.” She takes a few steps forward, expression earnest. “I’d also assumed Isaac would let me out of the house. I thought I’d be able to see family and friends. It didn’t take long for me to realise I needed something else. Someone for my own. Someone to entertain me.”

She clearly regrets her choice of words but there’s no taking them back. My stomach rolls. I didn’t think she was capable of saying that. Of viewing people like this. Of viewing _me_ like this.

“I didn’t mean _entertain_ ,” she tries to amend, voice strained. “I didn’t mean that, Peeta.”

“So that’s it. I’m just a piece in your games?” I pull away when she reaches for me.

“At first—at first you were,” she says. “I’m sorry for that. I never should have let it carry on. I never should have kissed you. But I didn’t know you liked me. I just needed someone and you seemed happy to be there despite the circumstances.” She furrows her brow, leaning in slightly. “Peeta, I’m not the only one to blame. You knew who I was married to—that I was married in the first place.”

Everything she says makes my eyes sting with tears. Because she’s right, I did know, from the beginning, but I wanted her so badly and maybe deep down I did think I could whisk her away. To stand here and listen to her admitting all this and knowing that we’ve both been selfish and stupid but that she did it with purpose form the start—that’s a knife to the gut.

“I did what I needed to survive,” Katniss whispers. “It’s selfish sometimes, I know. I don’t mean to hurt people, much less you.” She reaches for me again and I yield, letting her take my hand. “Peeta, you’re good and kind and I should’ve come clean. But I was desperate and so much was happening all at once and I couldn’t stop it without causing more damage. When you told me you liked me before, when you said you used to have feelings—”

I laugh to stop what feels like a sob erupting from my throat. “Gods,” I say, hand going to my chest. I half expect to find a wound there, cutting deep. “If it was someone else—if it wasn’t me, would you have done it?”

“I don’t know,” she says. “Maybe. But I’m glad it was you.”

She lifts my hand and presses her lips to my knuckles, closing her eyes. I tilt my head back until I can look at the ceiling. She’s saying everything I didn’t want her to say.

I stare at her for a moment, temporarily derailed by this brief new turn in the conversation. Although a lot of my anger has drifted away, I feel its remnants, and the crushing upset of regrets and _what if_ s.

“Tell me you didn’t think this was a real relationship,” she whispers, so close now that I can smell her. “Peeta, please.”

“Maybe not a relationship, but I thought it was real,” I say. I feel embarrassed to admit it. Stupid and naive. “I wanted to believe it. And I didn’t _once_ like you. I never stopped feeling that way.”

Katniss looks like she’s crumbling apart. I feel like I’m already dust. I feel torn between betrayal and the desperate, desperate need to tell her that all I want is her, and that I’d do anything to have her.

“I don’t want it to be impossible,” she whispers, and I have to take a steadying breath. “But there are so many people relying on me. And you don’t even _see_ it, Peeta. You don’t even see what we’ve been trying to do.”

I shake my head. “But what does that _mean_?” I ask her in exasperation. She doesn’t answer. She just closes her eyes, kisses my knuckles again. I force myself to break free of her grip and she lets me go.

“I need time to think,” I say. “I—I need to be away from you.”

Something in her face twitches, but she nods. “Okay,” she says, the syllables jelly in her throat. “Okay, Peeta.”

Neither of us talk as she gets dressed again. I pull on a pair of sweatpants and go and stand in the kitchen, eyes closed, hands braced on the countertop. When she calls my name, she’s at the door, about to leave. I go over, if only to open the door with the intention of latching it tightly behind her.

At the last moment, she turns and puts her hand over mine. Her eyes are huge, gleaming silver.

“Do you hate me, Peeta?” she whispers. “I don’t deserve your forgiveness but I want it.”

And perhaps that’s it. That’s the balance, the oppositions of this entire ordeal. It’s between what we want, and what we deserve. I want Katniss, but I don’t deserve to be lied to. I don’t know exactly what she wants, but she doesn’t deserve to be trapped with the Mayor. Maybe after all this we’ll realise we don’t even deserve each other.

“I could never hate you, Katniss,” I murmur, and something crumples in her expression, like I’ve said the opposite. I reach out to cup her cheek but stop myself, pulling back. “That’s the one thing I’ve never been able to do.”

…

In the days that pass and I only receive one note from Katniss, disguised as a message from Madge. In it, she extends her apologies.

> _I was wrong. I shouldn’t have admitted those things to you in that way. And I don’t think you’re a distraction, Peeta. You’re my friend._

I toss and turn, spending sleepless nights and dawdling, hazy days in the Justice Building turning over our argument in my mind, dwelling on it, trying to figure it out. I go and see Rye and Damson, my father, Mitch and Laurel. I drop in to see Delly. Although I’ve been to visit them fairly regularly, I know I’ve been neglecting them.

It’s clear to them all that something’s wrong with me, but I dismiss their worries when they ask.

“I’m just tired,” I say to Mitch, and he pats me on the back as I make to leave their house after supper but long before curfew. “Be safe, okay?”

“Don’t worry about me, you’ve got enough on your plate,” I tell Delly, because she does, having to worry about her students at a time like this.

“It’s just work wearing me down,” I promise my father, which is true, since people have been more hostile to me than ever before.

“It’s nothing, honest,” I tell Rye.

“Bullshit,” he says in response. “What happened?”

He manages to get it out of me one night. He closes up early given that the streets are deserted early on, people not willing to loiter around anymore. We double, triple-check the locks, peer out to look for Peacekeepers, pretend like everything else is normal. Damson vanishes upstairs to sleep, so Rye and I sit in the kitchen and share some liquor. After repeated prodding, he manages to get me to speak.

“I had an argument,” I say into my glass. “Or, it wasn’t at first. But someone said something hurtful to me and it kind of… snowballed from there. I’ve had to realise that this person isn’t who I thought they were—who I’d built them up to be in my head.”

Rye squints at me. “This someone Katniss?” he asks. He always did see right through me, my brother.

“I know you like her,” he says. “And I know something’s been going on between you two, even though it’s a reckless thing to do. Not that I don’t want you to go after what you want, not that I don’t want happiness, and gods forbid me, I’m no source of moral wisdom, but I think you need to question—both of you—about whether it’s worth it. Given the circumstances.”

“I know,” I mumble.

“People are talking, Peet.”

“About what?”

“About what you’re doing at the mansion. Some people think you’re courting Madge. Others..." he trails off. I laugh into my drink.

“Well, no one need ponder a moment longer,” I say. Rye frowns at me. “I am officially barred from the mansion,” I explain.

“What? Since when?”

So I explain. I tell him about the anger in the Mayor’s voice when he banished me. How certain I am that he knows.

“He’s just… never outright said it. And I don’t know why.”

Rye scoffs. “He’s a jealous man, Peeta. Everyone knows that.”

He’s right on both counts, but I didn’t know how jealous, how manipulative, how bitter the man was until it was too late.

“She was at my place the other night and we argued and–”

“She was at your _apartment_?” Rye asks, eyes boggling. “Peeta, are you trying to be killed? How stupid can you be?”

“She came to me,” I say, as if that makes it better or justifies what I knew was dangerous.

Rye drags his hand down his face. “Little brother, I thought you were the responsible one,” he groans. He picks up the liquor bottle and pours us both another measure. “I feel like I’m watching you walk willingly into a burning building.”

I put my chin in my hand. “I think I’m already on fire,” I say, gloomy.

“I don’t think you know what that feels like,” Rye replies. “But I don’t know if that’s because you’ve got used to the sensation, or if it’s because you haven’t even reached the heat, yet, even though you think you’re in it.”

I don’t know what the answer is either. All I know is that my sense of self-preservation seems to have been gradually slipping away from me over the past few months. I care what happens to me, and Katniss. I don’t want her to get hurt and I don’t want our affair—which still seems like a dirty word, one that doesn’t actually describe what it is we’ve been doing—to be revealed to the Mayor. But at the same time, I just don’t care what happens, as long as Katniss is okay.

But what she did—what she’s admitted to—it makes me angry. I’m hurt and embarrassed and _angry_ that she would do this. I hate myself for putting her on a pedestal and not expecting to get hurt. For allowing myself to be used. My trust in her may have been broken but I can’t bear the thought of never speaking to her again, of leaving her in the dark.

Almost two weeks after that fateful night, I’m home alone, exhausted after a day spent filling in death certificates and dealing with angry merchants who seem to think their problems are directly my fault, when there’s a soft knock at the door. It’s cold out, flurries of snow flitting past my kitchen window, a small fire burning in the heater in the main room.

I almost dismiss the sound, but then I see a hint of movement in the glass and go to answer it.

Katniss steps in and I quickly shut the door.

She pulls her hood down, dropping flakes of snow onto the floor. Then she just stares at me.

“Hello,” she says, quiet.

“What are you doing here?” I ask.

“I’ve missed you,” she explains. “You didn’t reply to me. I knew you wouldn’t want to hear from me. But I missed seeing you.”

“Needed a distraction?” I say flatly, going to the kitchen when the kettle begins to scream.

I hear her stomping ice off her boots and kicking them off, and when I turn and find her in the kitchen with me, everything in my very being yearns for her. She stands there, hair dark, nose red despite the golden tones of her skin, eyes piercing me, and I want nothing more than to yield.

“Peeta,” she says. “I need to make things right. I can’t let this end, not like this, not now. You were right. I have to tell you the truth.”

I say nothing so she continues.

“I regret what I did.”

“Telling me or actually doing it?” I ask, putting the kettle back down on the burner.

“I never should have done that to you, Peeta. The danger I’ve put you in… it’s my fault. I was being selfish.” She steps closer. “I was being so selfish but I couldn’t stop because I liked being around you. I felt like everything in my life was whirling storm and you came in and everything went calm and quiet and good.”

I lean back against the counter and wait.

“I’m sorry, Peeta. From the bottom of my heart, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said it. I shouldn’t have led you on, and that’s what I was doing at first, and I knew it. But now… I couldn’t bear to never see you again, never speak to you again.”

I stare at the floor, trying to figure out what I want to say. A long minute passes and then she sighs.

“I’m not the only guilty one. I might have led you on at the beginning, but you knew what you were doing too. You knew what it meant if we did this. Your feelings might have been deeper than mine—but you knew I was married, Peeta. You knew the reality of it all.”

I remember that day in the Justice Building, the Mayor arriving, Katniss not far behind. The shock of it all. But she’s right. I can be as upset as I want—she deserves my ire, after admitting what she did—but two can play at this game and I knew what I was getting myself into. Worse, I knew what I was getting myself into knowing that I loved her. That I was only going to get hurt. Any grand illusions of her reciprocating seemed unlikely, if not as impossible as the idea of whisking her away from the mansion altogether.

“I still don’t understand all of this,” I say. “You keep talking about something bigger but you never explain what it is.”

Katniss tangles her fingers with mine. In a hushed voice, she says, “There’s an uprising brewing. But the district would never survive it. We’d be just like District 13. What I’m trying to do is save my people now so they can push through later.”

“What do I have to do with any of that?” I ask, head spinning at the idea of uprisings, revolution. Katniss at the centre of the fray.

“You don’t. Not really. If I was smart or kind I would have never gotten so close to you. For now all you can do is wait and trust me when I say I know what I have to do.” She takes a steadying breath. “It’s too dangerous to tell you anything else.”

“You’re trying to protect me?” I ask, lifting an eyebrow. She squeezes my hands tightly.

“I’m trying to make amends for what I did. Stop you from getting hurt.”

There’s a fierceness in her eyes that makes me feel scared, almost, but it’s a fear of what is inevitable, what is fated. I can’t escape it so I must overcome my fear. Katniss Everdeen, the face of the rebellion. It’s about as guaranteed as the rising of the sun.

The next day, I see people being whipped in the square.

The day after that, several trucks of Peacekeepers vanish into the Seam and don’t come back until late in the evening.

And the day after that, I’m walking home from the Justice Building when I hear someone shouting my name. I turn and there’s a man striding towards me. I vaguely recognise him from a few weeks ago, when he came to the Justice Building looking for compensation after an accident in the mines even though he must have known I couldn’t do anything.

He looks furious and before I can do anything, he’s on me, landing a solid hit before I can twist around and haul him to the ground, old wrestling techniques flooding back to me.

It takes less than thirty seconds for the two Peacekeepers walking down the hill to spot what’s going on, and for Gale Hawthorne to appear at the same moment.

“What the fuck, Randall?” he snaps, running over and hauling the man away from me. I wipe at my nose and see the blood there, stunned. Randall is spitting about the Mayor as Gale pulls him back, looking like thunder.

“I don’t work for him!” I shout back. “I’m on your side!”

Gale gives me an odd look and then says something low and quick to the other man which makes him go limp. Gale lets him go, and then spots the Peacekeepers and curses under his breath.

“What’s going on here?” says one of them, and I clear my throat. I could have Randall sent straight to the stocks if I wanted to. My word against his.

“Nothing,” I say instead. “Just some friendly jostling.”

“You’re bleeding,” says the other. “We saw him run at you.”

“It’s just a joke,” Gale speaks up. “He caught Peeta by accident, didn’t you Rand?”

Randall swallows.

“Yeah,” he says. I glance at the two Seam men, heart pounding.

“And he knows it was a dumb thing to do in the middle of town,” Gale adds.

“Yeah,” Randall glowers.

“Fighting isn’t an offense,” I say. “But it won’t happen again.”

There’s a beat. The Peacekeepers ask for our ID.

“What are you all doing in the Quarters?” one of them asks.

“I’m headed home from work,” I explain.

“I’m going to the station,” Gale grumbles.

“I was gonna go pick up some new shoes,” Randall grits out.

“Curfew is in fifty-eight minutes,” says one of the Peacekeepers, and we all chorus our acknowledgement. “I’d advise you to quickly finish what you came here to do and then go back to your homes.”

They walk on and we scurry in the other direction. As soon as we’re out of sight, Gale thumps Randall.

“Are you stupid?” he hisses. “You have any idea what you could have got yourself into?”

“I’m not the one fighting against what’s right.”

“You think he’s privy to everything?” Gale spits. He looks at me. “You ought to watch your back, Mellark.”

I lift my chin. “Are you threatening me, Hawthorne?”

“I’m giving you a fair warning,” he says lowly. He shoves Randall ahead, telling him to go back to the Seam before he _causes more problems that you’re worth_. Then he turns to me and points his finger.

“I take it you’ve gotten over your little quarrel?” he asks. I blink, confused for a moment, and then,

“ _Katniss_?” I ask, and he squints.

“Of course.”

“How did you know about that?”

“Catnip and I are family. And she tells me when things go wrong.”

Again with the coded speak. I shake my head, almost ready to pull my hair out by the roots.

“That’s none of your business,” I say.

“Maybe. I just need to know it’s not going to interfere.”

“With what, exactly?” I ask and he sighs heavily, glancing up and down the street. “She told me about the uprising, that she’s making sure Twelve survives,” I add quietly, wary of listening ears. “I know about the riots in other districts. About what almost happened at the festival. I know people are angry, that they want things to change. I figure that’s why Cray was kicked out. If something’s going on, I want to _help_. I’m on your side.”

Gale nods. “I’d be surprised if you weren’t,” he says solemnly. It’s not an exact confirmation of what I’ve said, but it’s not a denial, either. He clears his throat. “Just keep your head down until this all blows over. That’s what would help us right now.”

“Surely it would be better if I was prepared?” I say, perhaps naively.

Gale looks like he wants to laugh. “No, it wouldn’t be,” he says, narrowing his eyes, and then he’s striding down the hill, away from me, leaving me to dwell in the blue light of the setting sun.

Despite how it settles into my bones, knowing that something is going to happen is a reassurance. The unrest isn’t just restlessness but action, a building wave of fury at the injustice. I can only imagine how different it is in the Seam. Twelve is a poor district, but those in the Seam are the poorest, the ones with the most against them. They have the most to lose but also the most to gain by taking a stand.

And at the heart of it all must be Mayor Undersee. He’s not alone, but Cray is gone, now, and that means the Capitol is at least a little aware of what’s been going on. The Mayor is very much under scrutiny.

I want to run in the streets and shout the truth to everyone who will listen. Tell them what I know. Tell them what I suspect. Ask them not to see me as the enemy here, not in this game. If only they knew what the Mayor had asked me to do. Then, perhaps, I’d be less the victim of people’s ire.

Once I’m home and behind locked doors, feeling only marginally safer from the outside world, I gingerly wipe the dried blood around my nose. It’s not broken, though Randall certainly landed a solid hit.

I badly want to go and visit my family but curfew is fifteen minutes away, and it would take about that long to get to the bakery. So I’m stuck inside instead, peering out into the street occasionally if I think I hear something or someone.

The Capitol news is broadcast—no mention of anything going on. That doesn’t matter, not when I’ve been told so directly that change is coming. It sends adrenaline through me to know this is happening.

And then the idea that Katniss is involved? How can she be, when she’s been cooped up for so long, detached from everyone and everything. Except for sporadic efforts to sneak out and see her family, and occasional letters exchanged, her contact has been severely limited. It’s hardly enough to spark a rebellion.

But I think about it. About how enraptured I have been by her for so long now. How much has changed in the past few months. And then about what she said to me. That for so long she’d viewed me as a distraction from the horror of her new life. She may have apologised for it but the sentiment remains. She used me. I know that. And yet I stand here knowing that I could never hate her. I can understand why she did it, even though I am the victim of it all.

She truly has been a lure. A flame I cannot escape. Perhaps I’m crazy to not only forgive her but to _recognise_ the effect she has on me, name it, shape it in my hands, hold it to the light—and still want her. Still allow her to do as she wishes.

All this time I’ve been wrapped up in us. In _her_. I wasn’t completely unaware that bigger things were going on, but I didn’t think it meant unrest. I didn’t think I would play any part of it, and definitely not Katniss. What damage can she do from inside those iron gates? Have I underestimated her that much?

I think of her. Her instinct to survive. If I was simply a part of her will to get through whatever the world threw at her, perhaps it is not so bad after all. I would do it again to keep her alive. To keep her out of harm’s way.

Maybe I haven’t done such a great job of it. After all, she did have to marry the Mayor. She had to live in that house. I came in and let myself get swept under knowing the damage it would cause. She did the same. We are on opposite sides of the same coin.

Late that night, I’m getting ready to sleep when there’s a knock at the door. I get up right away, already sensing who is shadowing my doorstep.

“Are you crazy?” I ask, hauling her inside and closing the door quietly behind her before peeking through the window to check the gloomy streets. If someone saw that I had a guest after curfew, we’d both be in trouble. And if it was found that Katniss Everdeen—the Mayor’s wife? I’d be in the square in a heartbeat, I’m sure of it.

If only Thread would take the Mayor down instead of ransacking the homes and business of the citizenry for petty crimes played out just to earn enough money to eat.

Katniss is wild-eyed. “I had to see you,” she says.

“Katniss,” I say, stunned. “This is—this is reckless. They’re whipping people in the square. They burnt down the Hob. You can’t be here.”

“I was careful,” she says, hands going to my upper arms. “Peeta, listen to me, I was careful. I’ve been careful every time. I know the route. I know the patrol patterns. I’m okay.”

I grimace. Of course I’m happy to see her, but this is too much of a risk.

“You need to go back to the mansion,” I murmur, pulling her to me. She smells of cold winter air. “Katniss—I miss you, I want you to be here, but you have to leave. It’s not worth it.”

She leans back, eyes me. “I came all this way, Peeta. And I can’t go until midnight at the earliest. That’s when they’re patrolling the eastern edge of the Quarters.”

She gives me a placating look. Then she frowns. “What happened to you nose?”

I touch my tender face without thinking and wince.

“I had a run-in with a miner. Randall? Do you know him?”

“I know of him,” she sighs. “He’s unpredictable and hot-headed.” I give her a look and she rolls her eyes. “Pot calling the kettle black, I know,” she says. “What happened?”

“He punched me. He was talking about my job at the Justice Building, about the Mayor. Gale appeared out of nowhere and stopped it before we could get into real trouble.”

“Did he say anything?”

“He asked about our ‘quarrel’,” I say dryly. “Did you tell him?”

“None of the details. Just that we’d fought.”

“Why would he need to know that?”

She squints at me. “He wouldn’t. I was just catching him up on things.”

I nod. “Alright.” I sit down on the edge of the couch. “He also told me you were involved in the miner’s plans to protest.”

“He told you that?”

“Indirectly. You’ve proven to me that you can meddle pretty effectively if you find the need.”

She scowls. “I’m not here to fight with you.”

“Me neither.”

“I’m going to stay until I know the patrol has moved. And then I’ll go.”

Although I’m still nervous about her being here, I nod. “Okay,” I say. She smiles.

By midnight, however, it seems unlikely that she’s going to be able to leave. At eleven thirty, a truck full of Peacekeepers screeched to a halt outside one of the stores at the bottom of the street. Katniss and I watched through the curtains as they poured out and invaded the property, pulling out the screaming and shouting couple who own it, and beginning to ransack it.

“You have any idea what this is about?” I ask Katniss, because I can’t even figure it out.

“No,” she says woodenly. She looks across at me. “I can’t leave.”

“No,” I say. The street is swarming with armed Peacekeepers now.

We wait until two a.m. We try to sleep but it’s near impossible. I don’t dare keep the lights on out of fear of rousing attention so we just peer through the window and wait, listening to the sounds outside.

“They’re taking them both away,” Katniss says. She’s hunched by the window, and I’m making tea in the kitchen. I’m tired but wired. I know I wouldn’t be able to sleep even if the street was empty and calm.

“What?” I say.

“They’ve arrested them both. They’re taking them away. To the square.”

I bend at the waist, trying to light the stovetop for the kettle, but the gas doesn’t flare up and catch. I risk flipping on the kitchen light just to see but the room stays dark.

“Katniss,” I say. “Can you see any lights?”

“The Justice Building,” she replies. “Nothing else.”

“They’ve cut the power,” I say, standing up. I go to the window in the bathroom, which has a sightline to the opposite side of the district. Swathes of darkness, rooftops lit by the moonlight, glittering in the frost.

This isn’t good. Fear spikes through me. “Katniss, I think you should leave. While it’s dark.”

“Where do you expect me to go? The street is still crawling, Peeta.”

I have nothing to say to that, because she’s right. She’s trapped here until the street clears. Risking her navigating the Quarters back to the mansion is just as terrifying at the prospect of her staying here. If she’s here for too long, it’ll be day, and much more likely that someone will spot her leaving.

“Take a breath,” she says, coming over to me. “Peeta, it’ll be okay. I’ll wait until curfew lifts. It’ll be safer then.”

I nod, but there’s a sinking feeling in my chest that morning will only spill clarity onto what’s going on. It won’t be any safer for her, for anyone.

We have no choice but to just huddle there, in the dark, and listen. We watch. We wait. I try not to think too hard.

“Isaac didn’t mean for any of this,” Katniss says around four a.m., stifling a yawn. “He just never thought Cray would be removed, that anyone like Thread would ever be brought in. He knew what he was doing was a risk, but he just kept going.” She shakes her head, staring into the distance. “And now his luck has run out.”

“What was he doing, exactly?” I ask, because I have to know.

“I’m sure you figured out some of it. He was taking money from district funds. Diverting claims made by citizens and taking them for himself. Cray did it too. And some of the other clerks.”

“I saw the patterns,” I murmur. “And he asked me several times for confidential information. Got awful tetchy when I said no, or that I’d have to involve other people if he really wanted it. Ration data. Licenses. All sorts.”

She nods. “He probably thought you’d do as he said.”

“He was wrong.”

“Yes,” she says, smiling faintly. “He always thought he was smarter than everyone else.”

I look at her, long and hard. “What are you planning, Katniss?” I ask.

“I’ve watched everything unfolding. I won’t need to do much.”

“Is Madge in on it?”

“Madge has been there since the start. She really is smarter than everyone else.”

“People think I’m loyal to the Mayor.”

“They’re just scared and angry and you’re the easiest to attack for it,” she says, taking my hand and squeezing. “I’m sorry about that, Peeta. I never wanted this.”

“It’s not your fault. You didn’t cause it.”

She hums.

“Do you think he’ll get found out soon?” I ask. “Thread seems pretty determined.”

“I think they already know,” she whispers. “They’re just waiting to see what else he can do to dig himself out.”

“I don’t want you to get hurt because of him,” I say.

“I don’t want you to get hurt either,” she replies. She leans her head on my shoulder. “But I’m worried, Peeta. He would do whatever it takes to avoid punishment. He would do anything to anyone.”

“I’ll be okay,” I mumble. I don’t really know if I believe it.

Katniss kisses my shoulder. “We can’t stop what’s about to happen now. It’s too late to stop it. But I’ll do what I can to keep you out of harm’s way. I promise.”

We drift off for only a short while, purely out of exhaustion, and I wake around six a.m. The windows are frosted up, but thankfully the gas has been turned on so I can make some hot tea while Katniss stokes the fire. We sit and eat toast and drink the gritty coffee shipped in from District 9 and try not to think too hard.

Finally she makes to leave. I go down the steps first, chipping away the ice as an excuse to check for eyes on the street, and then I dart back up.

“It’s clear,” I say.”

“I have twenty minutes before the patrol,” she mutters, wrapped up warm. She kisses me hard, desperate. It feels like the kind of goodbye appropriate for this longest of nights. “I’ll get a message to you, let you know I’m alright,” she says. “Just—just be careful, Peeta, alright? If things get out of hand—just stay out of the way.”

“You can’t ask that of me and then refuse to do the same,” I reply.

“This isn’t a matter of bargaining, Peeta. Just promise me.”

I look at her. She looks back, grey eyes deep, still pools. “Okay,” I say. She kisses me again, and then pulls her hat over her head and wraps a scarf over the top to obscure her face. I check once more through the window and then she ducks out into the murky morning light.

I watch her descend the steps and inch into the street and then vanish from sight.

An hour or two passes, and I’m getting ready for work, exhausted from the night of no sleep, when there’s a heavy knock at the door. I poke my head out of the bathroom and frown.

A beat passes, and then there’s another round of knocks, harder this time.

I dart to the door and peer through the eyehole and to my shock and horror find crowded on the metal stairwell a gaggle of Peacekeepers, including Thread himself. And then, further down, the Mayor.

“Mr Mellark!” shouts Thread. “Open the door!”

I swallow hard and then do as they ask.

“Quite a wait for men of the law,” Thread says, crowding the doorway.

“I had wet hands,” I lie. I give them my most genial smile. “How can I help you?”

“We’ve been informed of contraband items being found at your place of residence,” says Thread. “Step aside so we can verify if this is the case.”

I step aside. “I can assure you I have nothing contraband here,” I say, relieved my voice has remained somewhat calm. Thread passes, striding into the room and tracking mud over the boards, looks around like an assessing predator, and then motions with his hands. The two other keepers lunge at me before I can react, shoving me back against the wall. I fight briefly, and then go limp, my heart is thundering in my chest.

The Mayor steps through the doorway, looking around.

“What is this?” I ask, and he sneers.

“You know what this is, boy,” he says, coming in close. “This is what happens when you abuse my generosity.”

“Sir, I have–” I begin, only to be cut off when one of the Peacekeepers holding me strikes me in the stomach, a hard, well-aimed hit that almost bends me double.

“It would do you well to keep your mouth shut,” the Mayor hisses. “Before I find it fit to run you into the dirt.”

I lower my gaze and listen to the other keepers ransacking the place. I run through the apartment in my mind, every nook and cranny, every place where something incriminating could hide. I think of those things, as few as they are. Perhaps an errant sock Katniss left behind. A hair. A single thread.

There might be nothing, but they could still pin it on me if they liked. Peacekeepers have absolute power. Even old Cray had that, especially in his younger days.

“Sir!” says one of them, lifting one of my sketchbooks into the air. Thread grabs it, flipping through the pages with no care, bending the leaves, chaffing the edges.

“You’re a talented artist, Mr Mellark,” he says after a moment. “I understand you spent time under the hire of the Mayor to paint his family.”

“Yes sir,” I reply. “Over the course of the summer.”

Thread nods, eyes on the pages. Then he smiles.

“You have a great ability to capture the likeness of the people around you,” he drawls.

I don’t dignify him with an answer, though I suspect he didn’t care for one, either. I just look at him and glance at the Mayor rummaging through my things in the background, slow and steady while the keepers zip from one area to another. It’s a small space. I can only assume they would have found what they were looking for if it were there.

“Who, then, is this common muse?”

Thread comes closer, shows me the pages, flipping through what are endless sketches of Katniss. Not all are of her face, some are of her braid, her hands, her mouth, the curve of her shoulder. Thread stops on a portrait. It’s sketchy and rough but the likeness is clear.

“That’s Mrs Undersee,” I say.

“And why have you drawn her?”

The lies comes easily. “When I was preparing to paint her portrait, I sketched from memory to get her proportions right before committing it to the canvas.”

“This seems an inordinate amount of drawings for one painting.”

“This is the way I always draw and paint. I need to practice before committing it to the canvas.”

He squints at me, and then tosses the notebook aside.

“Mr Mellark, do you know why I’m here?”

“No, sir.”

“Is that so?” he stops, looking around. “This is an unfortunate place to live after being removed from the bakery.”

“I’ve done my best with what I have.”

“And do you miss the bakery?”

“I miss being around my brothers.”

“Do you believe your brother has taken care of the family business?”

“Yes sir.”

“And you would do anything to help him do well?”

“If he asked me for help, of course.”

“You have a powerful position at the Justice Building, yes?”

“I suppose so, sir.”

“With access to all the filing, the permits and reports, the ledgers submitted by each business in the district?”

“Yes sir.”

He opens his mouth to say more—and I’m sure what he’s getting at involves me forging documents for my brother, doing what the Mayor has done but for my own family—but then one of the Peacekeepers calls him over to the bathroom.

The Mayor stares at me for a moment, eyes bloodshot. I look back at him.

“Sir,” I say, because I can’t tell if he’s going to try and strike me down or if he’s scared of something, his eyes are so wide. The last time I saw him, he was shooting daggers at me as I left the mansion grounds.

“Mr Mayor, if you please,” says Thread, gesturing with one gloved hand. The Mayor brushes past me and Thread shows him something, speaking quietly. My position by the door and the radio noise of the keepers next to me means I can hardly hear him, but I can tell it’s questions.

Satisfied, Thread turns back to me.

His smile is wolf like as he rolls some small thing in his palm. Then he holds it up.

“If you would be so kind as to repeat what you just said to me.”

The Mayor exhales. His hands twitch by his side. And then he says, “That was my mother’s wedding ring, and my first wife’s and my second’s. A family heirloom. Priceless.”

Thread looks at me, lifts an eyebrow. My blood has turned to ice. The sketchbook could have been explained away, justified—but this? This small thing is the fracture that collapses me.

He holds up the ring. It gleams in the sunlight streaming through the doorway.

“A beautiful piece,” he says, looking at me. I try to keep my face even. “Not at all common, especially not here. How would you come upon it, Mr Mellark?”

I say nothing. I can’t explain this away. I’ve never seen Katniss wear it before. Perhaps she took it off whenever she was around me.

“This is a curious object to have in your home. This should surely be on the hand of a married woman, or am I mistaken? How could the Mayor forget this heirloom?” Thread pauses, stepping closer. The room shrinks down in an instant. The electric buzz of his earpiece gets louder. “Either the bonny bride has been here, in your private residence, or you have stolen this priceless artefact from her finger. The former crime is one of domestic courts. And the latter is one of petty theft.”

“I’ve never seen that ring before,” I say.

“What defense do you have for yourself?” Thread asks, presiding over this farcical trial.

I swallow hard. He sneers at me. How quickly this day has spun out of control.

“I can only tell you that I have not seen that ring before.”

“Are you suggesting my men _planted_ it here?”

A barbed question. One I cannot answer.

“It seems to me you have in your possession a ring belonging to a woman who is _not_ your wife.”

He looks at the Mayor.

“Do you have anything to add?”

“Only that I do not believe Mr Mellark stole the ring.”

I feel my jaw twitch. The bastard. But this has been a long time coming. Even I know that. I’ve been stupid and naive to think this would never catch up to me. I can only hope that Katniss can remain disconnected from it.

“I believe that is the only indictment we need to hear,” says Thread, sounding almost bored in his pleasure. “Mr Mellark, I came here to arrest you for committing fraud against the Capitol, but the Mayor told me I’d find much more if I had your home searched,” he says. I look at the man in question, fury rolling through me. “I do believe he was correct.”

“Sir—” I begin, as if anything I say could make a difference.

Thread arches an eyebrow, beady eyes dark. “Take him to the square.”

There’s a beat, and then the Peacekeepers grab me and haul me forwards, towards the door. I dig my feet in and get an electric current in my side because of it. They drag me down the steps and away from the apartment and into the freezing air of the street. I hear clattering, hear the Mayor chittering away. My head rings, a dull ache at my temple.

To my left, I see people watching. They all stop and murmur, and about what? I’m the baker’s son. People know me in the Quarters. I’m not one to cause trouble or get into it.

Thread marches on. I regain my footing and stumble, half torn between trying to fight my way out and to stay put but make it as difficult as possible. It’s several streets to the square. Plenty of time to cause a scene.

We cross into the main street and I’m walking properly now, my upper arms aching under the grip of my captors. I try to wrench myself free and in one fell swoop they have me on the ground, face down.

“I didn’t want to cuff you, Mr Mellark,” says Thread, sounding pantomimic, as if he were an arena announcer. “I had hoped you would come quietly and civilly.”

The cuffs clamp around my wrists, tight, the metal biting in my skin. It wrenches my arms back at a terrible angle, leaving me unable to move. We march on. People stare and point.

A voice rings out. “Peeta?” I look over. Delly.

She’s stood outside the florists with a look of utter confusion on her face. I suppose the sight of me in cuffs is one she never even thought would be a possibility. I certainly didn’t, not even after Thread appeared and began to punish people for offences we had forgotten were ever crimes.

“Delly, go and tell Rye!” I say. I don’t know if Thread meant it when he mentioned my brother, but I don’t want to risk it. “Warn him!”

Delly nods, tripping over herself, and runs.

We reach the square and I see the whipping posts. A woman stands in the stocks, pale and thin, locked there for days. I see three others tied to the whipping posts. One I recognise right away—Flattree. The other two are also clerks, though I’ve only spoken to them briefly before.

I have no time to ponder this any further as they string me up against the post, yanking my arms up. The wood smells like iron and is stained red, just like the cobbles underneath. No amount of water or scrubbing could remove it all, not now. There’s a ripping sound, a tugging at my throat, and then they’ve cut my shirt away. The air is bitter against my skin and goosebumps cover me immediately.

I can barely hear Thread announcing my crime and punishment over the sound of my own pulse rushing in my ears, but I hear some key words ring out. _Proven evidence of theft. Accusations of adultery. Fraud against the Capitol proper._

The first strike comes without warning and I can’t help the shout that bursts from me. The pain is immediate, hot and slicing, like a jet of fire searing up my spine.

And then they just keep coming. I close my eyes and focus on my breathing, using everything I know about dealing with pain to get past it, but the sensation of the whip making contact jolts through me, making it hard to concentrate.

I crane my neck slightly and see the people gathered, watching. It’s like a mirage. I spot Gale Hawthorne, and Freesia. I spot the butcher. A smattering of miners. I spot people I grew up with, just standing there, watching. When have we ever seen anyone whipped in the square, much less a merchant?

Eventually, I lose count of the strikes. I sag against the post, held up by how my hands can’t fit through the leather cuffs. This can’t be real. It feels like a hallucination. Perhaps I’m dreaming it all.

I know I pass out at some point. I dream of the pond at the mansion. Katniss’ bedroom, the gauzy curtains blowing in. I dream of walking across the warm tiles. I dream of walking across hot stones.

I wake and the world hums with pain. An agony so sharp and sustained it chokes me.

And then it stops.

“Let this be a lesson to you all!” Thread is shouting. I press my face into the wood of the post and breathe through my mouth. Everything tastes of blood.

I don’t expect to feel hands on me but I look around and see that the crowd has dissipated, Thread vanished, and then the world tilts as I’m released from the whipping post.

“Is it over?” I ask, but the words are slurred and all I hear are people’s voices wavering around me. Someone tells me it’s going to be okay. Another shouts instructions. More hands, lifting me. I groan at the pain shooting through my torso when I’m jostled, and the last thing I remember seeing is the square as I’m carried away from it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> visit https://blacklivesmatters.carrd.co/ to find out how you can donate, petition, and more, in your country and elsewhere. Be safe, everyone, and remain politically engaged.


	12. god will come if you call it

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: boy am I nervous to post this! Thank you everyone for your kudos and lovely comments. I’ve loved seeing you rant (and rave!), and listening to your theories and ideas is so much fun. I hope you enjoy this chapter, and thank you so much for reading <3
> 
> If you want some music to listen to, may I suggest 'There's Always a Flaw' from the _Catching Fire_ soundtrack. It's one of the best from the series in my opinion and was what I listened to when I was writing this.

When I wake, I feel hazy. Sore and unable to move, my limbs like lead. It must take a good few minutes to be able to swivel my eyes around and take in my surroundings. Wherever I am, I don’t recognise it. Scuffed floorboards, a bench pushed against a wall with a large wooden case on top of it. It’s dim, candlelight flickering.

I go to lift my head but it feels like a pile of bricks and my neck refuses to rotate, so I drop it back down onto… a table. I’m on a table.

There’s footsteps, and then a face appears not far from my own. A kid, young, Seam, staring at me with a mixture of curiosity and fear.

“Hello,” I croak, and they scamper away.

Less than ten seconds later, more people appear, and one of them is Prim. The older woman beside her looks familiar, and then I realise she’s Gale Hawthorne’s mother.

“Peeta,” says Prim. It’s been a while since I last saw her, and she looks older than I remember her being, hair pulled back behind her head, brow deeply furrowed. “You’re at the Hawthorne’s. I’m glad you’re finally awake. How do you feel?”

“Fuzzy,” I mumble. “I can’t really move.”

Prim nods. I feel her hand come to rest lightly on my shoulder. “You’re on some pretty strong drugs, so don’t try to get up. Are you in pain?”

“No,” I say. “Guess that’s a good thing, huh?”

“Yes,” Prim replies. She smiles faintly. “Do you remember what happened?”

The sight of Katniss vanishing into the early morning, the buzz of the Peacekeeper’s helmets, the ring glinting in the sun, the clerks strung up in the square, the cold air against my back, and whistle-snap of the whip.

For a minute I think I might throw up.

“Yeah,” I say thickly.

Prim looks up at Gale’s mother.

“Hazelle—can you get him some water?”

A minute later, Hazelle comes back with a cup, and Prim helps me drink from it the best I can.

“How bad is it?” I ask, after Prim has explained that I’ve been knocked out for most of the day and late into the night.

“No one could tell me how many lashes, but I counted almost forty. We were sent some medicine which kept you unconscious, and some to aid with healing. I’ve sewn it up the best I can…” her eyes swivel to my back. “…you’re not going to be able to move for a few days more.”

But I’ll live. Even I know how easily people can succumb to infection in District 12, especially in the Seam. I’m probably lucky to be alive right now.

“Did you see Katniss?” I ask. She must know by now what happened. And with the unrest flooding through the district, I’m worried she’s going to get caught up in it somehow.

Prim gives me an odd look. “No,” she says. “She wasn’t there, Peeta.”

“And the Mayor?”

“You need to rest. All your questions will be answered later, but I need you to rest right now, alright?”

She must inject something, or perhaps exhaustion just hits me, because the next thing I know I’m drifting off into a dreamless sleep.

The next day, I ask after my family, and after Katniss once again.

“You don’t remember your brother helping to bring you here?” Prim asks. I furrow my brow. I don’t remember anything.

“No,” I say. “I just remember leaving the square.”

“Your brother and his wife helped bring you here with some others. They had to leave before curfew. And it’s not safe for them to come back yet. But we’ve managed to keep them updated the best we can.”

“And Katniss?” I ask. “Are she and Madge okay?”

“I don’t know,” Prim says. “We’ve heard nothing from the mansion. But they’re safe, they must be. They have keepers outside, guarding them.”

“From who?” I ask. My entire being stings with pain.

Someone comes into the room and beckons Prim over, because she quickly stands and hurries away, leaving me alone. I hear muted whispering, and then she appears back in front of me.

“Look, Peeta. There has been… fighting ever since the square. I’m sure you knew protests were planned.”

“Yeah,” I croak. Distantly, I recognise I should feel more frightened about the prospect, but the pain is so consuming and the medication so dizzying that I can hardly concentrate.

“Thread hasn’t been able to calm things down yet. We’ve been on lockdown since the whipping. Last I heard they weren’t protesting in the square but at the mansion gate.”

They must have found out that it’s the Mayor’s fault, then. That he’s responsible for many of the district’s troubles, or at least had a hand in them.

“I knew he was doing wrong,” I mumble. “I didn’t let him do it.”

Prim puts her hand carefully on my shoulder. “We know that. Everyone knows that.”

I scrunch my eyes shut. “I didn’t want this to happen.”

“No one did, Peeta,” Prim says calmly. “This was never meant to happen to you. You’re going to be okay. Just try to sleep.”

“I don’t want to sleep,” I slur, but it’s too late, and I’m pulled under.

On what I’m told is the third day, Gale visits. He looks bone-tired and has bruising on his knuckles and around his eye.

“Freesia thought you’d want flowers,” he says, awkwardly holding up a bouquet. “Not sure what you’d do with them exactly.”

I lift my eyebrow in some semblance of a laugh. “Yeah…” he says, trailing off. “I’ll go give them to my mom.”

He’s back a moment later, sitting down on one of the rickety chairs with a heavy sigh. I see him looking at my back and grimacing.

“So they’re protesting?” I ask.

“Thread is calling it a riot. But yes. It’s actually pretty contained at the moment but… it’ll escalate if they’re not careful. They’ve been sending in reinforcements.”

“Do you want the Mayor to come out?”

“We want him to be tried for what he’s done. If even townies are able to be taken to the square without a trial, so should he.”

“You think it’s gonna work?”

“It will, eventually. When things get worse.” He scrubs his face with his hands. “You know the riots in Eight? They burnt down half the district along with the Mayor’s family before the Capitol could subdue it. And now they’re fighting back in Eleven as well. It’s not just us.”

I nod. I’m too tired to take all of this in. I can hardly imagine it. Right now, all I want to know is that my family and friends are safe. That Katniss and Madge won’t get hurt. They aren’t to blame for any of this.

“Where’s Katniss?” I ask. I know I would have been told if something had happened to her, something public, but who knows what’s going on inside the mansion? It must be hellish in there, those dark, empty hallways, the knowledge that angry people swarm at the gates, the knowledge that the person who deserves punishment lurks inside.

I think of the crimes I was supposedly found guilty of. Did the Mayor know for certain that Katniss and I had been sneaking around behind his back? Perhaps the ring was planted there. Not that it matters now. He got what he wanted. He got to punish me and use me and a handful of others as scapegoats for the issues with money, licenses, and more. As if we were colluding against our community to deprive them of what they needed.

“She’s at the mansion,” Gale says gruffly. “Madge sent a notice. They’re all okay.”

“Has the Mayor done anything?”

“Apart from hide? No. Nothing.”

I close my eyes for a moment. So Katniss, Madge, and Mayor Undersee are all in that big house, knowing that angry protesters are at the gates. I know she will have blamed this on herself.

And what good have I done in all of this? I was there for her but at what cost? I knew it was dangerous for everyone involved and now I’m here and who knows if she will be caught up in all of this. I won’t be able to help her in anyway, lying here. She wanted me to stay away and so many have warned me to be careful but it seems too late for those warnings. I think it was always too late.

“So everyone knows?” I ask, and Gale’s eyes widen as if to say _no shit_.

“People were talking already. It’s a small district. People noticed you were always at the mansion. But the Mayor and Thread… that confirmed the rumours.” He rubs the back of his neck. “I’ll admit I didn’t believe it at first. I knew you liked her but… it didn’t seem worth the trouble it would cause both of you.”

I stare at the floorboards, taking his words in.

“But she likes you. I know that. Her intentions weren’t always good but she was fighting bigger things. We were all trying to do something that was bigger than we were. And I know you’ve been caught up in it, Mellark. I know that’s not right.”

He frowns deeply, eyes downturned. I’ve never heard him talk so candidly, not like this.

“Don’t hate her for this. She was just trying to help. Trying to change things. You were part of it whether you liked it or not and it helped, knowing you were there. We had to just watch her move into that empty house. We lost her, watched her sacrifice so much. We’re grateful she had people like you and Madge.”

I think back to the many instances when Madge and Katniss would almost seem to talk in code. When I’d think that things didn’t add up, or that I was missing something altogether. It doesn’t make sense, still. What part did I have to play in any of this? I produced no rallying cry. I was just pulled into it all by her presence. She was a whirlpool and I had no hope of swimming free. Not that I wanted to. I knew that, even then.

“I still don’t understand why this is happening,” I mumble.

“Ever since the Quell, people have been talking. It was only a matter of time that things changed.”

The Quell. The seventy-fifth games. Four years ago, now. I remember it. The chaos of the Reapings, all over Panem. The interviews with the tributes, how quickly they went off the rails. Power outages in the Capitol. Broadcasts that would be interrupted halfway through with images of District 13. And the arena going dark at the end, only for the girl from District 1 to emerge victorious. Blinded and covered in blood, but victorious.

Since then, there have been no interrupted broadcasts. No unpredictable Games. But that doesn’t mean there hasn’t been change. Something has shifted in the districts. A restlessness that has built and built and built. The system in place promised safety and growth but all it did was damn us. It’s long been time to tear it all down.

“What could Katniss do?” I ask. “What could any of us do?”

“You’d be surprised at the power of one person. How they can cause things to topple.”

“So this was a plan? Her marrying the Mayor? My work at the mansion?”

“No, no,” Gale says, shaking his head adamantly. “No, this was never part of the plan. But Catnip has always been quick to adapt.”

“She’s a survivor.”

“Yes.”

I huff. “There was no plan.” I knew the risks, the probabilities. I knew that we’d be forced apart. When she kissed me and I knew the utter tragedy of it all. But how could I have ever thought it was part of anything bigger?

Gale sighs. “I suppose you’re tougher than you look. I’m not sure many people would be able to survive that many lashes. Katniss always did say you had it in you. People say she’s callous but she knows how to pick people who believe in what’s right. And she’s stubborn. Once she catches sight of something she wants, she’ll do whatever it takes to get it.”

“No matter who she hurts,” I comment.

“She didn’t mean for this,” he says, eyeing me. “Believe me when I say that, Mellark. When I first mentioned protesting she shot me down. She thought it was crazy. She was right that we had more pressing things to deal with back then. But eventually she figured out it was our only option but she didn’t want people getting hurt, especially not the people she cares about. That was never part of it. Things just… got out of hand, I guess. We couldn’t keep track of every piece on the board.”

He stands, then, like he’s said his piece and wants to leave before I can respond, shrugging on a heavily patched coat and moving towards the door.

“Prim will look after you,” he say over his shoulder. “There’s no one better.”

“I know.”

There’s a beat. Gale takes a steadying breath.

“We’ve all had to sacrifice, but you got caught in the crossfire. She knows that. We all know that.”

“I didn’t even know anyone was shooting,” I mumble, and his face does something complicated before he turns and leaves.

The day after that, the faint smell of smoke begins to waft in through the cracked window.

“What is that?” I ask.

“The Hob,” says Hazelle. She and Prim are applying salve to my back, trying to push away any infection. “It’s been burning since sun-up.”

“And some places in town,” Prim adds. “Some of the townies set fire to the Peacekeeper’s houses.”

“I imagine that’s under control by now,” says Hazelle. “But the Hob will burn until it’s ash.”

I lift my head in surprise. Gale had warned that there was going to be bigger backlash the longer the Mayor refused to face up to what he’d done, but I’d almost expected it to die down. I certainly hadn’t anticipated hearing that _Merchants_ had set fire to the Quarters, especially not the homes of Peacekeepers. I knew things were getting tense, but this is another level. The Peacekeepers would have surely quashed everything by now, unless it had grown into a bigger movement than they were expecting.

“How long has it been like this?” I ask. “I thought it was just protests at the gates of the mansion.”

Prim looks harried. “Since this morning. The miners didn’t show up for their shifts—they all went to the square instead, met with everyone else who wants to take a stand.”

“Is it still going on?”

“Yes.”

“How many are dead?”

“We don’t know.”

There’s a loud hammering on the door. Someone yelling for help.

“I can do this,” Hazelle says. “Go, Primrose.” Prim hurries out of the room and we listen as she brings in someone from the street. Prim is a talented healer, but this is a lot for a girl her age to handle. I feel dread curl through me, thinking of my family, my friends. I can only hope they’ve stayed out of the way, aren’t putting themselves in danger.

“How many are hurt?” I ask. Hazelle looks like she’s barely slept. It’s a sharp contrast to myself. I’ve been drifting in and out of a drug-addled haze for the past few days, waking up and being updated on the world outside while the people around me live in it.

“Enough.”

“Do you think the protests will work?”

“I’m not sure. There’s a lot of anger in the air. But anger alone won’t change anything, not if Mayor Undersee doesn’t make things right.”

“I need to see my family,” I say. “You have to let me go.”

“We can’t risk you opening all your stitches,” Hazelle says, using the tone of a mother who’s spent half her life telling off boisterous children. “You’re going to stay here. It’s too dangerous out there anyway. If you die on our watch Katniss will never forgive us.”

Memories come back to me in flashes. It’s by no means enough to fill in all the blanks, but it means I can recall being carried through the district. It means I can remember the sound of Rye and Damson and several others shouting. It means I can remember blearily watching random people gathering in the streets, or running to and fro. It means I can remember the slice of the whip.

The next day, Rye appears.

“I managed to get through,” he explains, pulling a woollen hat from his head, his hair sticking up. “I can’t stay for long.”

“What’s it like out there?” I ask.

“Bad,” he says. “They been gassing people to get them away from the mansion. So they just went to the square instead. It’s a mess.”

“Are you okay? And Fen and Dad?”

“Yeah. Trading has shut down. People aren’t willing to go out and about right now. Thread seems surprised at how difficult it is to subdue it all.”

He sighs and gives me an empty smile.

“I’m almost glad you’re stuck here,” he admits after a moment. “If were back in the Quarters… you’d have got yourself into trouble.”

“I think I already did that,” I say. I’d shrug if I could.

He sits and gives me a puzzling look, like he can’t decide if he wants to tell me _I warned you, little brother,_ or if he wants to say _I didn’t think this would happen, not in a million years._

Of course I didn’t expect it either. One moment I’d been discussing what I’d been doing with Katniss all this time, and the next the truth had been ripped out into the open.

“I’ve already told you what I think about you and her,” he eventually says, shoulders bowed like the words are weighing him down. “And I know that there’s little I can do to convince you otherwise. But I want you to really think about what you’re doing, Peet.”

“Rye—” I say, because I’ve heard this so many times now, and it feels too late for me to really start listening.

“No, listen,” he interrupts. “Peeta, you’re my brother, and I care about you. I know you love her but I worry she doesn’t feel the same way, and that maybe none of this wouldn’t have happened if it wasn’t for her.”

“She didn’t cause this, Rye,” I snap, and he lifts a placating hand.

“I know. But you’re in too deep and you can’t be objective anymore. It’s clouding your judgement and I think you know that. All I’m saying is that you need to really think about this. Think about whether it’s really worth it. Maybe it would be better for you to just stay away.”

“From her?”

“For a little while, at least.”

“What good would that do?” I ask.

“Considering what has happened to you, I think it would do a lot of good. Look at you, Peeta. And look at what’s happening outside. I’m not saying they’re mutually exclusive but we do not need extra fuel to the fire right now. You need to hold back a little. Get some scope on the situation before you go barrelling straight back to stand beside her.”

“I thought everyone knew I wasn’t the problem.”

“They do,” Rye says, frustrated. “They know it’s the Mayor, that it was him and Cray. But do you really think they’re gonna care if things go on the way they are? People are desperate. If you get in the way things might turn out even worse for you and I’m not going to let that happen.”

He gives me a fierce, protective look. I know he’s right. I’m not in the middle of everything. I was in the Quarters when the raids began, when the power was shut off, but that was different. In the few days since, I’ve been shut up far away from everything. I can’t fully understand it. Any of it.

“I can’t let her get hurt,” I say.

“Peeta—do you really think Katniss Everdeen needs you to protect her?”

It’s not meant to be a cruel comment, but it certainly strikes deep and sharp. Of course she doesn’t. Katniss Everdeen is a survivor. It’s written into her very soul. That doesn’t mean I don’t still love her. That I don’t want to protect her. I’ve long known that she could get by on her own without me. I’m a speck in her life so far, a small fraction of years spent surviving on her own terms.

My brother leaves not long after that, needing to get home lest he get caught up in whatever it is that’s going on out there, and also perhaps sensing, as I do, that our conversation will start to go around and around in circles unless he just gives me the space to take in what he’s said.

Once he’s gone, Hazelle comes in to check on me.

I say to her retreating form, “I’m sorry for this, for bringing this into your home.”

“You’ve done my family a great kindness over the years, and the Everdeens,” she says, and I know she means the bread I used to purposefully burn and give to Katniss. “You needn’t worry about this.”

She gives me a motherly smile. I blink at the floorboards. Did she know? She clearly does, now, along with everyone else in the district. I want to ask her if she hates me for it, if she thinks I’m just some townie putting the young woman she likely considers family in danger, but I can’t get the words out.

I spend much of the day thinking about what Rye said. He’s right. I know that. I’ve known for a long time that I’m in too deep, that I’m not objective, and that I’ve consciously allowed myself to be swallowed up by everything. But how was I to know that this would ever be the outcome? Just as I never expected that Katniss would want me in any shape or form, I didn’t expect protests and unrest either.

Maybe I do need some time away from it all. All of this might be a blessing in disguise. Just being alone, here, separated from everyone and everything—it might be what I need to get my head on straight and really think about what I’m doing, what I want. What is right, as if the answer could ever be so clear.

On the fifth day, I’m able to stand for the first time. I go to the porch to get some fresh air, and stare at the deep gouges driven into the icy ground by endless passing trucks filled with Peacekeepers. It’s snowed already, much of it turning to grey slush, and the sky is white and flat.

On the sixth day Rye visits again, this time carrying bags of bread and flour for Hazelle and her family, leaving quickly after a truck of Peacekeepers thunders past the house, reminding us of how quickly things are deteriorating. He informs me that everyone is okay and as safe as they can be. He tells everyone else that the protests have resulted in several deaths already, that Thread is ordering more aggressive retaliation with every passing hour, and that the mansion has stayed still and silent.

On the seventh day, I wake in the middle of the night, my entire body aching because Prim has insisted on weaning me off the strong painkillers, only to hear the hushed sounds of people arguing just beyond the doorway.

It doesn’t take long for me to recognise the voices as belonging to Katniss and Gale. My heart sparks at the knowledge that she’s right there. That she’s alive and in one piece.

“… _what he’s done, Catnip,”_ Gale hisses. _“If he hides away—what does he expect will happen? That we’ll give up?”_

_“Of course that’s what he thinks. For now he has Thread on his side. He convinced him about Peeta and the other clerks.”_

_“Thread has to be able to see through it.”_

_“Thread doesn’t care. He came here to restore order. Seeing the Mayor of District 12 on trial is not order. It’s revolt.”_

_“It’s justice.”_

_“To us. Not to them.”_

A beat.

 _“Why didn’t you tell me?”_ Gale murmurs.

 _“You were already angry,”_ Katniss says. _“I didn’t want to give you any more of a reason to act. Not until I was ready.”_

_“What about him?”_

_“He’s been dragged into this. I didn’t mean for it. That’s my fault. He needs to stay here until everything blows over.”_

_“Prim won’t be able to keep him here, Catnip. It’s already been a week.”_

_“I just need a day or two. They electrified the entire boundary so I had to get creative.”_

I furrow my brow. I hear the creaking of floorboards.

 _“This has gone too far,”_ says Katniss.

_“I know.”_

_“I’ll put an end to it before anyone else gets hurt. This district needs a better leader if we’re gonna survive this thing.”_

I hear footsteps, and assume they’ve walked elsewhere in the house. I wait but eventually drift off, the dull throbbing pain in my back still enough to make me want little more than to be unconscious.

I don’t know how long I sleep, but it can’t be long. When I open my eyes, Katniss is in front of me, appearing like a figment of a dream.

“Katniss,” I murmur, sleep-addled, stunned. The house is still and silent, candles flickering. It’s been over a week since they cut the power, allowing only an hour of electricity per day but keeping the fence constantly humming.

“Hi,” she says softly. She’s wrapped in a thick coat. I make to stand but she pushes me back down. “Prim told me you’d already torn your stitches,” she says. “Stay there, alright?”

I relent and she looks at me with a pinched expression. Then she crouches down and puts her forehead against the side of my arm. I reach an arm around her, as far as I can without ripping out my stitches or reopening my wounds. I don’t even know what my back looks like yet but it must be a sight.

We stay there for a moment in the quiet, cold house, just breathing each other in.

“How did you get out of the mansion?” I eventually ask. She lifts her head to look at me.

“I bribed Darius.”

She sits back down on the bench. I reach out my hand and she takes it in both of hers. Her fingers are freezing. She kisses my knuckles, lashes casting shadows over her cheeks.

“I was worried about you,” I say quietly. “I didn’t know things had gotten this bad. The protestors at the mansion. Gale said they were waiting for the Mayor.”

Katniss opens her eyes, gunmetal grey, two bullets trained on me. A chill rolls over me, prickling my spine.

“He’s what they want,” she says. “They won’t get him. He won’t come out. He’s refused to stand trial.”

“After everything he’s done.”

“He’s a greedy man, Peeta. And he already had you strung up. In his mind justice has been carried out.”

I squeeze her hand.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.”

I furrow my brow. She looks exhausted, like there’s an immense weight pressing down on her shoulders. But she also looks hopeful. A cautious kind of hope that might be snuffed out at any moment, but hope nevertheless.

“Tell me the truth,” I say. “You told me yourself that he’s an angry person. That Madge doesn’t escape it either.”

Katniss leans back. Fear and fury spikes through me, remembering those bruises on her wrist and forearm.

“What did he do?” I ask.

“Nothing,” she murmurs, exhaling. “I thought he would. But he’s just been in his office, watching the television. He knows Madge and I are stuck there. He thinks that’s a good enough punishment for going behind his back.”

“He has to come out at some point.”

“He doesn’t care. He doesn’t think he’s in the wrong, not really.” Katniss sighs and rubs her temple with her hand. She looks at me and it makes me think of all those weeks in the mansion, painting her. The stolen looks. The hum of bees and smell of paint and the feeling of her in my arms. How different everything is now. How obvious it is that we can’t go back to that, not ever. Our path has diverged again, just as it did the day she walked into my office, a bride.

“Prim said you were healing up okay,” she says. “I’m glad the medication worked.”

“Did Madge send it?” I ask, thinking of the supplies that must be in the house after years of treating the first Mrs Undersee.

“Haymitch did,” Katniss murmurs. My eyebrows lift in surprise. She shrugs, apparently not feeling the same emotion. “He’s helped a lot.”

“I thought he didn’t like me.”

“Doesn’t mean he wants to see you like this. He remembers the days when whippings were more regular. And he knows which painkillers work best.”

I didn’t realise Katniss and our sole Victor were that close.

“I’ll have to thank him,” I say.

“He won’t accept it.” Katniss twists her fingers with mine. “I’m so sorry this happened to you, Peeta. If I had known what Isaac was going to do—I never would have left you that morning. By the time the news got to me, people had already gathered at the gates. I had to wait for Darius.”

“This isn’t your fault,” I murmur, because I can just see that she’s wracked with guilt. The inner machinations of her mind are likely framing this entire thing as her doing. It doesn’t help that we argued so shortly before Thread arrived. She admitted she’d sought me out because she was bored. I had called her selfish. I’m still angry with her despite everything.

“I should have stayed that morning,” she whispers.

“It would have been worse if you had. You might have gotten hurt.”

“I could have stopped it,” she says, gesturing at me. “I could have stopped this.”

“And then where would we have been? Both of us strung up? Shot where we stood?”

She gives me a hard look. “Don’t say that,” she says.

“I don’t regret that you left.”

“I do.”

I take a breath. “We can’t go around blaming each other. I know this isn’t your fault. You didn’t cause this, Katniss.”

“I did, though. Didn’t I?” she whispers, eyes suddenly welling with tears. It’s enough to make me tear up too. I wipe hastily at my eyes and wince when the movement makes my back twinge.

“I never should have led you on, Peeta. I never should have involved you in any of this. It’s my fault you kept coming back, it’s my fault you didn’t just get to do what you were hired for. I’ve dragged Madge into this too. And for what? People are still getting hurt.”

“Hey, hey, stop,” I say, hating this vitriolic cycle of self-disgust boiling within her. “You’ve said your piece. You admitted to what you did. But you’re not alone in this, Katniss. I knew the danger. I knew that because I loved you I didn’t care what the risks were. Everyone warned me. Even you told me you wish I had stayed away. But I didn’t. I couldn’t. You knew that I couldn’t.

“I couldn’t stop thinking about you—I’ve never been able to stop thinking about you, Katniss. But that doesn’t mean this is your fault. You didn’t cause this. And the people getting hurt right now aren’t your responsibility.”

Katniss’ face crumples. “Peeta,” she says, the sound barely a whisper. “I have to stop all of this. I’m going to stop all of this.”

“It’s not up to you.”

“It is. I made it that way.”

“Made what?”

She shakes her head. I furrow my brow.

“I wanted change. Gale wanted change. We all knew how to get it. But I never thought I’d be at the mansion. I never thought you’d get intertwined. If I was smart I would have pushed you away but I didn’t. If I had, you wouldn’t be here right now, and I’d be able to do what I have to do without wondering if it’ll be unforgivable in your eyes. If you’d hate me for it.”

I lean forward. “I could never hate you, Katniss. You know that.”

She stares at me. “That’s your weakness, Peeta. Your fatal flaw.”

“It’s worth it. To me, you’re worth it.”

“No,” she says, shaking her head the way a parent does to a child who simply cannot understand why something can or cannot be. “I know what it means to sacrifice for what you believe is better. I’m not worth your life, Peeta.”

“You don’t get to decide that.”

She closes her eyes for a moment.

“I can’t change your mind,” she says.

“No.” I furrow my brow. A sudden realisation. “And that’s your fault, Katniss.”

She stands up.

“Where are you going?” I ask.

“I’m going to get us something hot to drink. And then I have to leave.”

I twist my neck to follow her out of the room. There’s the sound of clanking metal and the wail of the kettle a few minutes later, loud in the silence of the house. Katniss returns with two mugs and I push myself upright so I can drink. It’s hot cocoa, sweet and holding so many memories of my childhood, curled up by the fire on a cold night.

Katniss sips her and I do the same. She smiles at me, but it’s troubled, not reaching her eyes.

“Hey,” I say. “It’ll be okay.”

“I don’t know if it will,” she whispers. I don’t know what to say to that. I can’t promise anything. Neither of us can control this. Things have long been beyond my control.

Cocoa finished, Katniss takes the mug and sets it aside with her own.

“You must be cold,” she says. “Seam houses always are.” She finds a blanket and lays it over me. “Are you in a lot of pain?” she asks.

“Not so much anymore. And I was asleep for most of it.”

I yawn, suddenly overcome with tiredness. Katniss puts her hand on my cheek, a soothing touch, and then sinks it back into my hair.

“You’re a good man, Peeta Mellark,” she says, her voice swimming.

“I’m not that good,” I mumble. I reach for her other hand and she puts hers in mine again. I pull it up and kiss her knuckles the way she did me.

She crouches down, tilts her head to look at me fully, at eye level.

“I do love you, you know,” she whispers, like it’s a terrible confession. And maybe it is. I certainly know it’s all I’ve been able to do, for so many years. Love her. And look where that’s left me.

“Never as much as I love you,” I tell her.

I yawn again. She just looks at me. As my eyes grow heavy, she fades in and out of focus like flickering static.

Just as my eyes close, she comes in closer and speaks again, her words tolling like a bell.

“I’m going to kill him, Peeta. Stop all this madness before it’s too late for us to be free.”

A distant alarm screams in my head, but I’m powerless against it. Her words echo and echo and echo, and I succumb to the fog.

I know I’ve been drugged when I wake. I see it in the expressions on Prim’s face, on Hazelle’s.

“It was the cocoa,” I say, still bleary. I’ve been asleep for over twelve hours.

“I didn’t know until she’d done it,” Prim says a while later. “I don’t know why she did it.”

We stand in silence for a few moments.

“Peeta,” Prim says. She’s stood behind me, changing bandages.

“Yes?”

“Mayor Undersee is dead.”

A pause. The sound of Prim wringing out a bandage.

“What?” I say, my pulsing quickening. I stare steadfastly at the wall.

Katniss’ voice twitches back into being. _I’m going to kill him, Peeta_. Does Prim know? Did Katniss reveal her plans? I can’t imagine she did, not to the sister she loves so much. Implicate as few people as possible. Gale surely knows. Madge must.

“He killed himself. That’s what Thread said.”

“Oh,” I say.

Prim smoothes the last bandage over. “You’re healing up nicely. It’ll scar but it will heal. It’ll just take time.”

The Mayor is dead. Katniss worked fast.

That evening, as I sit at a crowded table to eat, I learn more about the situation. Madge running to the gates, crying. Telling the Peacekeepers her father was dead. Katniss explaining that they found him in his study, slumped over, his first wife’s bottles of medication beside him. An overdose.

“That might stop the protests,” says Hazelle. “Before anyone else gets hurt.”

“A coward’s way out,” Rory says. Prim, pale and tired, elbows him.

The next day, Prim says I can go home.

“No direct sunlight for at least six months,” she explains, packing me an assortment of bandages, salves, and balms. Some are homemade, apothecary items, the bounty of generations of knowledge. Others have Capitol emblems. “No physical labour, and make sure you are religiously applying the balm. Come back in a week and I’ll do another check-up, go from there.”

She purses her lips. “Does that sound good?”

“Yes,” I say. Something stilted has come between us. Again I question if she knows anything of what Katniss has done. All of it. Not just this final act.

“Alright,” she nods, sliding the satchel of goods over to me.

“Thank you, Prim,” I say, genuine. “I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for you.”

She nods the nod of a young person with already too much responsibility on their shoulders.

“Be careful out there, Peeta,” she says at the door, peering through the curtains. The streets are quiet for now but anything could happen.

“I will,” I say, and then I pull on my coat, moving gingerly what with my back still sore, and step out into the bitter air. The door closes tightly behind me.

Late December. The middle of the winter, the coldest, darkest time of year. I listen to the silence of the Seam. The Hob is gone. The mines closed. The district still and quiet, a building pressure.

Walking along the frozen earth of the street is odd. I haven’t left the Seam since the whipping, haven’t seen anything of the protests, the fighting. The television has stoically broadcast images of citizens they’re calling rioters, demanding peace and civility. I’ve had to listen to the accounts of others to try and get a grip on what was happening around me.

I make my way through the Seam. A few faces peer out at me through squat, curtained windows. I see houses that look recently burned down amidst the ruins of ones long-abandoned. I see the deep claws of the Peacekeeper’s tires gouging into the ground. I keep expecting to spot them skulking around, but there aren’t any to be seen.

As I get closer to the divide between the Seam and the Quarters I see more evidence of destruction. The husks of buildings, homes and other wises, reduced to their foundations, piles of blackened wood reaching into the grey air. In the Quarters, it’s not as quiet. I see people from all areas of the district milling in the streets. They’re bundled up against the cold, some holding bats or other makeshift weapons or shields. But no one is fighting.

I see a Peacekeeper. Darius, who everyone knows as the good one, the one who was more Twelve than even some of us who were born here. He’s leaning against the wall, smoking, helmet under one arm.

“Mellark,” he says, nodding.

“What’s going on?” I ask. He looks dead on his feet.

“Waiting for orders. Thread’s sent for a supply train. Should be here in a day or two.”

I nod. Whether it actually appears or not will be a test of what Katniss has done.

“You heard about the Mayor?” Darius asks.

“Yes,” I say.

“Kinda dampened things around here. Protestors don’t know what to do with themselves.” He makes a _humph_ sound. “It’d probably be wise to keep walking.”

I do as he says.

Further into the streets, I see graffiti on the walls of buildings. Some of it is random, others state the intentions of the protestors. On the wall surrounding the school on the main street, there’s a simplistic bird surrounded by a poorly-drawn circle.

I duck down an alleyway. Spot Randall. He doesn’t look my way.

I want to see the square so I squeeze down a side street and peer through the mouth of it into the open space. The whipping posts have been tipped over. Signs of disarray. Some shops are boarded up, others apparently left mercifully alone. A gaggle of Peacekeepers stand on the steps of the Justice Building. Even with their helmets on I can tell they don’t know what to do with themselves. I can only wonder what it’s like at the mansion.

I head for the bakery, keeping my head low. When I knock on the back door, Rye’s face appears in the fogged glass. His eyes widen and he yanks it open.

“Peeta,” he breathes. I step inside. He shuts and locks the door behind him.

“Hi,” I say. Damson jumps up from the table and hugs me carefully, a flurry of questions pouring down on me.

“I didn’t know you were coming back,” she says. “We should have come and helped you.”

We all know that’s not a good idea, not now, but no one dwells on it.

“What happened to you?” I ask my brother. He has a yellow and purple bruise on his jaw.

“We were out protesting,” he says, sounding proud. I stare at him.

“When?” I ask.

“A few nights ago. Just before the Mayor killed himself.”

When I was knocked unconscious, dead to the world.

“And what’s happened now?” I ask. Katniss said she wanted to _stop the madness._ Was she talking about the protests?

“No one’s sure,” Damson says. “The Mayor’s death… it threw everyone off-balance, I think. He was what we were all after. Once the truth came out, that it was his fault, the delays, the payments, everything… people were angry.”

I think of the burnt down buildings. The Peacekeepers. The injured people. The crowds now loitering like puppets cut free.

“Thread has been telling everyone to get inside but no one will go. Even he seems a little at a loss.”

A stunning change for the man who was prosecuting every person within sight. A clear sign that things have shifted.

“I heard they were still guarding the mansion,” I say.

“Some people don’t believe he’s actually dead.”

I nod slowly. This feels so very surreal to me. After being caught up in the centre of it for months, it only took a few days for me to be cut off from the world, from everything going on in it.

Rye and Damson look at me. I look at them.

“He’d dead,” I say, keeping my voice even. “They wouldn’t lie about that. Thread wouldn’t.”

They nod in unison.

“How do you feel about it?” Rye asks carefully.

“I never liked the man,” I reply. He lifts his chin slightly.

“No,” he says.

“Is that from Primrose?” Damson asks, pointing to the satchel. I nod, opening it. We observe the contents for a few minutes, pulling out the jars and bottles. Then we discuss the bakery. It’s closed until things mellow a little more, until the train arrives. Until things… are different. I ask about dad and Fenton, about Delly, Mitch, everyone I can think of. It seems like everyone is okay. The deaths were few, fewer than anyone expected, given the scale of the protests.

Eventually Damson is the one to ask what I can tell they’ve both been hedging at.

“Have you spoken to Katniss?”

I stare at the worktop, at the flour embedded there. “She managed to visit the night before the Mayor died.”

“What did she say?”

“Not much,” I mumble, scrubbing my hand over my face. I can’t tell them the truth.

“And where does this leave you?” Rye asks. It’s the question that’s spinning in my mind, too. Where _does_ it leave me? I don’t feel like running to Katniss. In fact, I want to keep away from her for the moment. I’m angry about a lot of things. About a lot of lies and misdirection. But I also can’t help but imagine her in that mansion, imagine what would happen if I went to her now. The primary external conflict between the two of us has been… removed. So now what? Perhaps in normal circumstances cutting her off would be the wise thing—the right thing.

“I don’t know,” I say honestly. “I haven’t see her for a few days.”

Rye looks at me with narrowed eyes.

“I know what you’re both thinking,” I grumble. “That I need to be careful, keep my distance, think about what I’m doing. Trust me, that’s what’s been going through my head, too.”

“But you won’t stay away,” Rye says. “Will you?”

I can’t make myself lie to him. I can’t even make myself speak. I just stand there and visions of the summer spent in the mansion flashing before my eyes. It seems a million years away. Another world entirely. That one and this one—two sides of the same coin.

Damson glances at the time and then at me. “You ought to go, Peeta. Curfew’s not far off.”

She’s right. I say goodbye. Everything feels distant and strange as I do so.

I meet no one on the way back to my apartment but some of the lights in the street are on, flickering, wavering yellow glows. The square is lit up. Curfew means little to the protestors.

My apartment is stale and cold. I prop open a window for the amount of time it takes to get a fire going, and then close it up again. I sit in the silence and think. I find something to eat. I shower and apply the balms Prim packed for me. When I go to double-check that my door is locked before I go to sleep, my foot crunches over a piece of paper lying wedged half-under the doormat.

A note from Katniss. How long it’s been there, I can’t be certain.

> _Peeta. Know this: I wanted to protect you. I never wanted you to be hurt, not like this. Not at all. I know that is difficult to believe because I did hurt you. But please, imagine yourself in a desperate situation, one you know will end in bloodshed unless you do something, and ask yourself what you would do to stop it. To divert the path travelled._

I think of my own musings earlier on, about the alternate Panem in which I diverted from this reality, maybe courted Katniss earlier on, took my chances, changed things.

> _When you read this, I will have done what I should have done long ago. I did terrible things to you, Peeta. My intentions don’t make them any less so. I don’t expect you to forgive me. In the coming months know that I can never atone for what I did for you but that you were at the centre of everything. For me._
> 
> _\- K._

It’s the first time she’s signed one of these letters. The first time it’s been more than a handful of lines.

I stare at the paper for a long time. I almost throw it into the fire. In the end I slip it into a notebook and go to sleep.

The train arrives a day early. People gather at the station, strangely silent and calm compared to the usual crush. Peacekeepers hang back, watching. Protestors watch them. People quietly collect their rations and leave. I’m unable to help loading bakery items and barred from clerking, so I stand back and watch.

The train is here. The train was early.

A few days after that, the district gathers for the Mayor’s funeral. Or, rather, much of the district is already outside, facing off with Peacekeepers, and the funeral procession happens to pass by.

It’s a muffled, grey morning. I stand with Rye and Damson on the main street and watch. A handful of Peacekeepers escort the Mayor’s coffin. I stand stiffly, my entire body aching. I can tell people are looking at me. Everyone knows, after all.

“Peeta,” says Rye. He doesn’t say anything else. I look at him. He looks worried.

“I’m fine,” I say.

Someone throws rotten fruit onto the coffin. They get reprimanded by one of the keepers but it’s half-hearted. Even they know this is the man who prompted the unrest.

Behind the coffin comes the Mayor’s car. In the back sit Katniss and Madge, both in black. It’s slow-going over the icy cobbles. I look through the glass as it passes. Madge is looking the other way but Katniss stares directly at me.

I try to figure out how I feel. Anger, of course. Shock, horror, terror, even. She did this. She killed this man. She drugged me. To keep me out of the way should things go poorly, but drugged me nevertheless. Used my feelings to her own advantage, in a game I’m still not sure I know the rules of, if there were any.

But there’s also a faint thread of relief. Relief that he’s gone. That she finally got rid of the man. It’s a burden she’ll have to carry for the rest of her days—one that will weigh upon me, too—but one she did to save countless others. One for the many. She risked her life for her sister, for Gale, for the district. It doesn’t make it right. But it doesn’t seem wrong. It doesn’t seem unforgivable.

The Mayor was a man who refused to stand down, who was blinded to what he had done and was doing to the people he was supposed to serve. He had to be brought down. What part I had to play in all of this, I can’t be certain. Katniss appears no less clear on why she did what she did. Both of us were swept up. She in her plans, her intentions for freedom, for ridding the district of the Mayor. In his place, we have Thread. A new regime, dangerous and violent. But at least we can eat.

A while later, Thread orders the miners back to work, the protestors back to where they belong. A few follow the commands, but most stay. In the immediate aftermath of the Mayor’s death, little seems to have changed.

I think of writing to Katniss. Or to Madge, to ask her about her role in this. If she at any point knew that what Katniss was doing to me wasn’t right. If she knew from the start that I’d be unable to hate her entirely for it.

In the end, I write nothing. Contact with the mansion is lost. I go to Prim. I go to the bakery. Everyone waits and watches as people refuse to budge. The Mayor’s death might have brought the trains back to the district, but it has not ensured peace.

Then, something different.

At the bakery, the Capitol-mandated television wedged into the corner between the walls and the ceiling like a bird suddenly switches on. Damson, Rye, and myself all swivel to look at it. We’ve been sat in the kitchen for most of the day, not saying much, trying to figure out what’s going to happen next. The Capitol reports for a moment, brightly coloured and cheerful. And then the screen fuzzes to the side, a sharp static sound ringing out.

“This was happening when you were in the Seam,” says Damson. “We thought it was District 5 at first. But it’s not a power outage.”

I stare at the screen. The fuzz melts away, the Capitol reappearing for a split-second, and then the fuzz returns with vengeance. Footage of burning, smouldering rubble. District 13. Anyone would recognise it as so. A bird swoops across the sky. And again. And again.

“What is this?” I ask.

“This is new,” Rye says, sounding dazed. “The broadcast has never been interrupted like this before.”

Then the screen switches to footage of District 7. People fighting in the streets. Then District 11, where people march alongside a wire-topped wall.

A squealing sound, and then the Capitol broadcast flickers into existence once more. The presenters are beaming, smiles wide and toothy. They begin talking about governors in the Capitol.

“Someone’s breaking into the feed,” Rye murmurs.

“But who?” says Damson. No one has any answers.

News of District 4 erupting into chaos hit the wavelength. Thread seems unwilling and unable to disturb the relative calm in Twelve, unwilling to tip the scales into chaos. I manage to see my dad, check that he’s okay. I hug Delly in the street. The last time we saw each other was in the square.

“I’m so scared,” she whispers into my ear. “I don’t know when I’m going to wake up to more fighting.”

“It’ll be okay,” I say, though it feels hollow. “It’ll be okay, Dels.”

This happens more and more over the next week. President Snow appears at one point, asking for peace, reminding Panem of the Treaty of Treason. The Victory tour, scheduled for January, is postponed.

“Look at what you have done,” says Snow. “Disrupting the delights provided by the Capitol with such civil unrest.”

“This is a rebellion,” I say. That much is clear.

“Thread must be waiting on orders, then,” says Damson. “Or waiting for Twelve to do what Seven and Eight and Eleven have done.”

“But why haven’t we done what they have?” says Rye. There’s a fierceness in his eyes I’ve only seen a handful of times before. Everyone seems to be effected by it. This simmering rage. No one can answer him, but a realisation sweeps through me and a chill rolls down my spine. Katniss has been planning this. For how long, I don’t know. I don’t know how many others know. Madge and Gale, certainly. But could that be it? Just four people in the entire district know what she did. And two of them let it happen.

So I go and find Gale. He’s stood in the square with hundreds of others. Just standing there. Looking at the Justice Building. Staring down the armed but outnumbered Peacekeepers on the steps.

“She did it on purpose,” I say in lieu of a greeting. He doesn’t even flinch, just looks down and across at me.

“What?” he says. Thom peers at me like he’s never seen me before and then looks away, jaw set.

“Katniss,” I murmur. “I heard you talking and she told me before that the district was too weak to survive without a leader. She said she had to make a change before it was too late.” I glance up at him and then away, eyeing the square. The air is thick with tension.

“What she did—” I’m unable to say it. “She did it for a reason. She did it _now_ , for a reason. Did you know there was going to be an uprising?”

Gale somehow goes even more rigid. He clears his throat.

“There was always talk. In the mines. The Hob. It’s been brewing for years.”

“Ever since the Quell,” I murmur.

“And before. Abernathy brought it to Twelve. After that it was just a matter of finding the right opportunity.”

“Abernathy told Katniss?”

“Not at first. No, he just set the rumour free. It grew from there.”

I nod.

“Has it really made a difference?” I ask. “The Mayor. We still have Thread. If you wanted a strong district, why not pull the entire operation down, instead of just one man?”

“It takes one to topple them all,” Gale mutters. “And, tell me, have you ever seen Twelve so unified?” He pauses. The television typically used at the Reaping flickers on. The Capitol seal spins. Then a newscaster begins reporting on the _devastating riots in the districts, which threaten each and every one of us_. Thirty seconds in, the ruins and looping bird reappear.

“That bird,” I say. “I saw one on the wall. Outside the school.”

“A mockingjay,” Gale says. “Bastard bird. Half mutt, half natural.”

“A symbol?” I ask. He nods.

“The district is united,” he says lowly. “You’d have to be stupid to think we could survive what they’re doing in Seven, Eight, and Eleven. If we rioted like them, we’ll be gunned down. But now we’re a united force. We just need to wait.”

“For what?” I ask. He doesn’t look my way.

“For help.”

Help arrives a day later. It’s the early morning when the sky erupts into thunder. It’s snowing and bitterly cold, forcing the protestors to shelter under shop awnings. I stand in the street with Rye and Damson, mouth open, eyes upturned, as four helicarriers slide out of the flat, grey sky and across the district.

People shout at first, terrified. We know the Capitol has bombed Eight and Eleven in retaliation. But no bombs drop. People begin flooding the streets.

Two touchdown in the square, the others elsewhere. No one can recognise them. They carry no emblem on their wings.

Thread and the Peacekeepers aim their weapons, shouting. Then the helicarriers spit out waves of soldiers, all armed, dressed in black, a stark difference to the Capitol’s policing force. A smattering of gunfire, which results in several downed Peacekeepers.

Thread calls for ceasefire and steps forward. There’s a tense exchange with the apparent leader of the hovercraft, and then Thread is pounced upon, pulled down, cuffed. Any other Peacekeeper who tries to get involved is apprehended in the same way.

We just stand there and watch. In the end, it’s all very uneventful.

At first, it’s organised chaos. People shout and gasp and stare like it’s some pantomime, these soldiers who do not look like they belong to Panem infiltrating the square and herding Peacekeepers into the Justice Building.

The one in charge climbs onto the steps and removes his helmet. A man with dark skin and a firm expression. He holds a bullhorn and begins to speak.

“Citizens of District 12, I am Commander Boggs. You needn’t be distressed. We are not here to harm you. I have been sent here from District 13 to protect you in the coming months.”

There’s a beat. I feel like I’ve been smacked in the face.

“District 13 was destroyed!” someone in the square shouts.

Commander Boggs lifts his bullhorn. “District 13 is alive and well. I understand this will come as a shock to many of you, but be assured that we are on your side.”

People begin running out of the square. Others run into it. No one seems to know what to do. I hear people yelling about whether Boggs is here to take us to District 13. I hear people yelling about how District 13 can’t still be there, surely not, not after all this time? Shouts about Thread, the Peacekeepers, the protest.

And then, because everything is happening at once, the television above the Reaping stage fills with the image of a grey-haired woman. She speaks coolly, a smile on her face, about District 13, about rebels, about revolution.

“District 13 has deployed forces to several districts, to aid in protecting rebels. Do not resist. We are here to protect you from the Capitol.”

“What in the world is going on?” says Rye. Damson grips his arm and mine.

“We should leave,” she says.

“No,” I say.

“Peeta,” Rye snaps. “Until we know what’s happening, we get indoors.”

I look at them. My heart is pounding, my head spinning with what I’ve just seen. Hovercrafts from District 13, arisen from the ashes. People from outside of Panem, telling us they’re here to help. A rebellion? It will be a war. And Katniss—she did what she did so that the district was united when it all began. If the protests had continued, gotten out of control, who knows what state we would have been in right now? Would we have been like the other districts, burning and fighting and spilling blood? Or would we have simply been crushed to smithereens?

“I have to go,” I say. Rye grabs at my arm, hauls me back.

“Peeta, no,” he hisses.

“I have to,” I repeat myself. I pull my arm free. “Rye, I have to go. You know I do.”

“Look what she did to you!” he spits. Damson runs forward.

“Peeta, we know you love her. We know that. But look at what she did. At the danger she put you in. Please. Just wait until we know what’s going on.”

“The whipping—that wasn’t her fault,” I say slowly. Because it wasn’t. That was the Mayor. An effort on his part to what—to punish me? To punish Katniss? Both. He must have known about an uprising. Did he think Thread’s reign of terror would quash any incitement in his district? If he had known his people at all, he would have known that it would have the exact opposite effect.

“Peeta, please,” Rye begs, though they’re already moving in one direction, and I in another.

“I have to,” I say. “I know what she—I know what she did. But you don’t know the half of it.”

My brother and sister-in-law stand there, shoulders bowed, faces a mixed of utter shock and betrayal, as I back away. I speed up, my walk turning into a run. I push my way through the square. People have started demanding answers from Boggs. The woman on the screen keeps talking. People run to and fro. Some laugh. Some cry. Some stare at the sky as if to ask what else it will produce.

I look warily at the soldiers from District 13 as I pass them by. I learn from snippets of conversation as I shove through the crowded streets that a helicarrier is in the Seam, too, and one in the Victor’s Village. The snow keeps falling, silent and graceful, an odd juxtaposition to the swathe of activity below.

I get to the mansion gates and find a crowd of protestors there, making a lot of noise as Peacekeepers are cuffed and walked towards the square. Darius is there, helmet gone, gun discarded, hands raised. People shout at the soldiers from Thirteen, telling them _he’s one of us_ , _leave him alone_.

I use the commotion to get through, scaling the wall in a way that sends sharp pain across my back. I’ve undoubtedly ripped something, but I can’t stop now.

My heart is in my mouth as I walk. The interior of the mansion grounds is overgrown in a way I’ve never seen before. It’s only been a month, and yet the hedges are jagged, the gravel driveway spotted with grass and weeds. It’s still, the way it was just barely a year prior, when I walked up to the house to visit Madge. The mansion looms, still, silent, windows like eyes.

The roses at the base of the building have been hacked away. They lie, pristine, glittering in the weak light, strewn across the ground. To the left, a pile of ashes. On top, my painting of the Mayor, the canvas curled, flickering with flames. I stare at it for a moment, and then the front door opens.

Katniss stands there, dressed in a tunic and trousers. Her boots. Her hair tied in a braid.

“You just missed Haymitch,” she says, like it’s already an afterthought. Her voice sounds wispy, fragile, like she’s in shock, like she can’t believe what she’s seeing.

We stand and look at each other. My breath clouds into the air. In the distance, the sound of whirring helicarrier blades. But no shooting. No screams.

“You were waiting for this?” I ask, gesturing uselessly. Katniss puts her hands in her pockets. She looks tired but hopeful. There’s a brightness in her eyes.

“Yes,” she says. I nod.

“Abernathy told you?”

“Eventually. He didn’t know who to trust with the information. But being here…” she looks up at the doorway. “He knew I could do something bigger.”

I release a breath. She bites her lip.

“Would you have believed me if I’d told you?” she asks. She has a point. I would have thought she was crazy.

I look back down the driveway, past the roses, the painting, to the gate. The entire world has shifted on its side. It’s barely ten a.m.

“I haven’t forgiven you,” I say roughly.

“I know. I didn’t think you would.”

I feel helpless in my anger. Helpless in my draw to her. I feel like everything is hitting me at once.

“You shouldn’t have done what you did.”

“No,” she says. She sounds like she means it, her voice fragile. She doesn’t speak in riddle and rhyme anymore. “But you understand why I did it.”

“Some of it.”

“Would you listen to me if I tried to explain?”

I sense that she already knows the answer but nod anyway.

“I don’t know if I trust you,” I admit. I lift my chin. I can block out some of her siren call now, at least enough to stop myself from entirely drowning. It’s a fight to tread water, but I can breathe. I can see the nets and weeds tightening around my ankles.

“I think that right now that’s for the best,” she says. She puts her hand on the edge of the door.

I take a deep breath. I hardly know what to say. How to say it. Everything is spinning. I look back up at her, across the icy steps, and the spinning slows to a manageable roll.

I close my eyes for a brief moment. Somewhere in a nearby tree, a bird calls, high-pitched, mournful.

I open my eyes. Katniss is watching me carefully. “Are you going to come in?” she asks.

“Yes,” I say, advancing up the steps. She offers me a soft smile, reaching out a hand. I put mine in hers as I step over the threshold, and then the door closes behind me, taking the rest of the world with it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And then the rebellion begins! Let me know your theories as to who would have been the mockingjay in this alternative version of events. Who would have won? Would Katniss and Peeta meet the other Victors? Alternatively tell me what you enjoyed ;)
> 
> saturnblushes on tumblr!


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